


Whatever Remains Must Be the Truth (The Impossible)

by FanficCornerWriter19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Mary is Referenced, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being Smart, Sherlock Being a Good Friend, Sherlock and John Being Brilliant, Sherlock and John Being Idiots, Supernatural - Freeform, more than I thought she'd be actually, seriously so many OCs, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-08-10 03:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficCornerWriter19/pseuds/FanficCornerWriter19
Summary: A case forces John and Sherlock to broaden the boundaries of the impossible and deal with the consequences of messing with the supernatural. Unfortunately, one of those consequences is that this case is bigger than even the two of them can handle. Fortunately, it means they have a new friend or two to help them out.





	1. Bite and Rescue [John]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NovaNara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/gifts).
  * Inspired by [However improbable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406230) by [NovaNara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara). 



> Hey! I've had the first few chapters in my docs for a while and thought I'd bring them out. You see, I read NovaNara's amazing 'However Improbable' and thought, "What if I remixed this to include a bit more werewolf and some OCs?"
> 
> There are some copy-and-paste sections, so credit goes to NovaNara!

I had always known that Sherlock would be the death of me someday (by proxy, of course; he wasn't a murderer). But I had never factored in – not even after Baskerville – that something quite like this could happen.

We had been contacted by the relative of a young girl whose brutal death had found no explanation satisfying enough for our client. It had been chalked up to rabid strays – as she was literally half-eaten – but she worked with dogs and the relative was sure she'd know how to deal with them. Sherlock had connected to her death a few other similar cases which had happened on a widespread area, all too strangely timed for it to be really the work of wild dogs.

Probably a serial killer, he'd proclaimed enthusiastically, that then gave the body to his (surely abused and half-feral) dogs to mess up the traces. Perhaps – considering a few recently buried bodies dug out and ripped into in a nearby graveyard – a cannibal who had finally decided to get himself some fresh meat.

That the case had Sherlock beaming wasn't a surprise. The dogs' use had ensured that New Scotland Yard and the professional forensics didn't even start to suspect someone's involvement, and this criminal promised to be clever and ruthless. Even if eventually we discovered cleverness had very little part in the killings, so in that it was a disappointment – I guess.

It was time for our murderer to hunt again (he had an obvious system), and Sherlock and I were hoping to stop him, since we had a clear enough idea of his _modus operandi_ and patterns. Finally, one bright night, we stumbled on a crime scene. Well, when I say crime scene...we slipped inside a nightmare might be more adequate a description.

There was a dead body, of course, but the thing heartily biting into it wasn't a stray, nor indeed a dog of any kind. It had to be at least a wolf, going by its size alone. He raised bloody jaws from his meal and – very clearly – snarled, “Sod off. I'm not sharing.”

I honestly have no idea if I would have obeyed such an order had I been alone, but Sherlock had frozen and was – as far as I could tell – trying to blink away what was happening. Which might not have been an altogether bad idea, I thought at the time.

But then the wolf (tail-less; weird which things stick in your head) looked up and grumbled, “Unless you're offering to be dessert.  _Are_  you?” and leaped towards us, so willing him to disappear clearly wasn't working. I did the only sensible thing (I still maintain that). I shot him. I should have done so before, really, but I was too weirded out to act. Sadly, that didn't even slow him down. So, with no time to think, I just shoved Sherlock out of the way and braced for the impact.

A giant wolf jumping on you and then quite intent on trying to chew through your chest is bloody painful, let me tell you. I really thought I'd die. And the only thing going through my head was _God, give him enough sense to run now._ Vain hope, of course.

A moment later Sherlock was hissing, “Let him  _go_ ,” and attempting to bodily dislodge him from me. It annoyed the wolf, who turned on him, and for a moment I closed my eyes not to see the worst I feared would happen. But then I heard the sound of breaking glass, a blaring alarm and a mighty yowl – or was that two?

I snapped my eyes open to see the giant wolf lying half on top of a display. Thank God, Sherlock had dodged. The wolf rolled off hurriedly, and I spotted the gleam of the jewellery – oh, right. Werewolf. Silver. Sherlock, of course, wouldn’t know that, but he’d seen the adverse reaction of the thing. But it was growling, and not at Sherlock.

A smaller gold-and-silver wolf, this one with a very clear bushy tail, was savaging the larger one, and snapping at it threateningly. I took it that the growling was meant to be a reply to the smaller one’s accusations.

Small Wolf barked at Sherlock, who darted in and rammed some of the silver jewellery down the snarling Large Wolf’s throat. The very snarl was the ruination of the creature, because the projectile lodged, and soon we had a choking wolf, and soon a dying wolf, reverting to human form. Not that it saved him.

As soon as the wolves were no longer snarling and biting, Sherlock was by my side, looking honestly terrified. “What do I do, John?”

Small Wolf made a sound like a bark at him, looking as indignant as a wolf can look indignant. It – he, I guess – pounced on me, and before either Sherlock or I could push him off, he licked my wound, then bounced off and chuffed at Sherlock as if to say, ‘You see?’

I noticed that for someone bitten by a werewolf and supposed to be dying of blood loss, I felt considerably good. “Put pressure on the wound,” I instructed anyway.

He did so, and a moment later whispered in amazement, “John? The wound is closing.”

It really was, and soon I had only an ugly scar to show for it. “Let's go home,” I said. Before the police arrived, alerted by the alarm, and accused us of robbery and murder.

Small Wolf whined eagerly, and rubbed against my legs. He was behaving like a very large dog – in fact, though I’d dubbed him Small Wolf, he was a tad bigger than a German shepherd. If I had to guess, he would match a well-fed, muscular male grey wolf. I looked at Sherlock. “Do we bring the wolf?”

I was thinking of Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman, no matter how much she dealt with Sherlock’s experiments and body parts in the fridge and random shooting practices, would probably have a heart attack to discover this huge muscled mass of bristling gold-and-silvery-white fur and sharp canine teeth on her doorstep. “No,” he decided.

But Small Wolf seemed intent on following us, trailing us at a sedate walk and rubbing up against our legs. Given our recent experience with wolves, was it any surprise that we tried to bat him off? But Small Wolf was determined to take care of us, and tailed us so faithfully a dog would’ve been proud.

Finally Sherlock growled in frustration and allowed the wolf to follow us to the haven that was 221B Baker Street.

I’d thought the wolf would be afraid of the lights or something, as most wolves are timid creatures, but Small Wolf seemed perfectly at home, dashing up the fire escape and snapping to be let in. With a sigh, Sherlock let him in. Small Wolf was really not very small at all – he made the flat suddenly seem a size smaller.

I studied him. He was a fine specimen, really. His dusky golden fur covered the top of his body, and his tail was all shining gold. He had the customary grey highlights of a wolf around his face and legs, but instead of grey, those hairs were dark silver, and the rest of him was white. Very clean too, for a wolf; his fur looked silky. The only things differentiating him from, say, a muscular, domesticated wolf-dog was the dark wildness in his glacial blue eyes, and his readiness to bare his fangs.

Small Wolf settled himself on the sofa, though Sherlock made a face, no doubt about the hair the creature would undoubtedly shed. The wolf only sniffed at him.

Finally Sherlock declared, “We  _must_  have been drugged. But how? When?”

“You figure it out. I'm going to sleep and hope that this turns out to be a nightmare,” I replied, leaving him and Small Wolf alone in the living room as I went to bed. He wouldn’t harm Sherlock, of that I was fairly sure. He could have done it many times before now, and he hadn’t.

* * *

It didn’t turn out to be a nightmare. Of course not. Just my luck. I had to point it out the following morning, panic in my voice. “Sherlock. I've got the scar.”

“Was it all true, then? How can it be?” he countered, sounding lost. But he must have decided that we couldn't both panic, because then he continued, “No matter. It's clearly not impossible, since it happened. People called chemists alchemists in the past, before the truth was understood. You are currently an unknown quantity, but we're going to figure you out. Don't worry, John.”

“I'm not your fucking experiment,” I growled, surprising the both of us.

“I just want to help, John,” he said, subdued.

“Yeah, of course. Sorry. I... don't know why I lashed out like that.”  _Liar._ “Know what? Experiment away. I authorise you. At least you won't be bored.”

There was an awkward, tense silence, until a chirrupy tenor remarked, “Hello, boys of Baker Street.”

The detective and I nearly jumped out of our skins. A young man of about twenty was seated at the foot of my armchair. He had straight, shining gold hair and an upturned nose that was almost cute. He wore a denim jacket, black fingerless gloves, a grey shirt, nondescript trousers, and – were those boots? Actual leather boots?

He was an intruder. The same feral thing that rose up against Sherlock rose up against this young man, and I growled, “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you down right where you stand and hand you over to the police.”

“For one, you don’t have your gun,” he replied, unafraid. “For two, it’s rather bad manners to throw out a guest, don’t you think?” His eyes were glacial blue – only a shade lighter than the blue Sherlock’s eyes took on when they fancied. Hold on, glacial blue? I recognised that shade.

“A guest? That’s a fancy word for an intruder, isn’t it?” I asked.

“No, Dr. Watson. You let me in last night, remember?” The young man blurred out of sight, and in his place sat the golden wolf we’d allowed in last night. Sherlock let out a strangled exclamation and almost fell over backwards. The wolf blurred back into the young man. “There. You know me. I’m safe.”

“ _Know_ isn’t the term I would’ve used,” I groused. Sherlock was still staring, goggle-eyed, at the stranger. My instinct was to step in front of him, but he was seated too close to the wolf-boy.

“My name is Northwood,” the young man said. “Skye Northwood. And in case you’ve forgotten in the last thirty seconds, I’m a werewolf.” He flashed me a toothy grin too close to Sherlock’s ‘sociopath’ smile to be comfortable.

“How do you know my name?” I demanded, tempted to run back into my room and grab my gun just for the sake of scaring this kid. Of course, I doubted it could hurt him anyway.

“221B Baker Street. The name on the lock screen of your laptop.” He shrugged. I risked a look at Sherlock, who was in ‘buffering’ mode. “Go on, Skye. Night’s over. You can go back to wherever you came from.” I was surprised at the ease with which the orders left my mouth.

Skye suddenly bared his teeth. It wasn’t a threatening move, as some sort of instinct in me recognised. It was a show of dominance, a contest. I bared my own teeth back and growled.

He jumped me. The boy jumped me! He pinned me to the ground and snarled, “For now, John Watson, I’m alpha. And you don’t question that.” With that, he clapped my shoulder and helped me up, only to be grabbed by Sherlock. “Don’t you dare,” he barked at the kid.

The tall detective, with his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, should’ve been more than a match for the wolf-boy, but Skye kicked up his knees, throwing Sherlock off balance for a second. The two of them fell to the ground and began to scuffle, while I ran to my room and brought back my gun.

“Oi!” I shouted. “Stop it! Do you want Mrs. Hudson to throw you out, Skye?”

The blond struggled out from Sherlock’s grasp, shifted, and streaked behind me. He shifted again and laughed. “You know those bullets wouldn’t hurt me, John. Even in human form, those bullets would have to be silver to hurt an Ayhan werewolf. British ones, I’m not so sure.”

“Ayhan?” I echoed.

“Aye,” he agreed. So that was the explanation for the strange accent. It sounded like a blend of American and British and a little bit of – what was that, Russian? “That’s where I’m from. Canarim, specifically.”

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “Quit making up places. I’ve no time for fairy-tales. Is there anything we can do about John’s… condition?” _Besides me moving out_ , I added morosely inside my head. Somewhere isolated, preferably.

Skye shook his head. “Nope!” He popped the ‘p’. “Can’t be reversed. It’s lycanthropy, and good old straightforward British lycanthropy too. I’ve never seen it in action.” He scampered onto the arm of my chair like an excited child, and clapped his hands. “More fun for everyone.”

“Like I told Sherlock, I’m not your experiment!” I snapped.

Skye took a deep breath. “Sherlock – I’m assuming you’re Sherlock – okay, you’re Sherlock – come here.” He snapped his fingers when the detective hesitated. “ _Now_.” Sherlock obeyed, perplexed. “Do I look like I’m going to hurt anybody?”

Sherlock looked him up and down. “You travel a lot, and you don’t really have a lot of money, but you get by. You used to have a lot of prestige, but you’ve got a demotion of sorts. You have a girlfriend who evidently likes to get frisky, you have some experience with weapons, and you have a bit of a temper – no, a _lot_ of a temper. You’re fidgety and likely need some sort of calming mechanism. You engage in gymnastics, or something of the sort, regularly, going by the faded dirt on your elbows, cuffs, and shoulders. Oh, and you wear a wristwatch and play the piano.”

Skye looked slightly miffed, and he said, “Hey, tip for you, Curly – don’t out people’s love lives, yeah? Could help you largely with the people department.” I almost laughed at this attempt to get my friend to piss off.

“So I’d say yes, potential murderer, with the right cause.”

The wolf-boy scowled. “Curly, or Sherlock – ooh, Curly Sherly – I’m not ineffective here, you know.” His ice-blue eyes glittered. “I won’t murder anyone, and I certainly won’t murder John. As of now, he’s pack.” He shifted and rubbed against me as if to prove the point.

His familiarity with his wolf was astonishing to me. He shifted so fluidly, so naturally, as if it was normal to him to be a fanged, raging monster of the night.

 _But first…_ his voice sounded in our minds. He bared his fangs. _Would you like to join John, Sherlock? I can turn you, too._

“No!” I shouted. “Don’t you dare, Skye or whatever your name is!”

He rolled his eyes. _In case you were wondering, it’s not contagious, John. Well, unless you count bites, which I don’t. Flat-sharing with a different type of werewolf might add more natural competition, but otherwise you should be fine_.

“Should I add that we don’t even know John’s symptoms yet, let alone what mine would be if you bit me?” Sherlock cut in scathingly. Oh, good, he’d been projecting.

 _Symptoms?_ Skye sounded dangerously offended. _Lycanthropy is a special condition-slash-curse, Sherlock, not influenza or cancer._ Sherlock huffed, and I was almost tempted to tell him to apologise to the little bugger, if only to take the growl out of his voice.

 _Exactly how touchy are you about the condition in general?_ I asked. I was scared to pieces of this whole new thing – God, I was a monster. I was a beast.

“ **No**.” Skye’s and Sherlock’s voices were dual, inside and outside my head respectively. “What?” I asked out loud.

For once, Skye let Sherlock take the lead. “You’re not a monster, John,” the detective announced, in much the same way he said anything – with that undertone of ‘It’s obvious’. “You’re John, just…”

“Just with a werewolf curse attached?” I remarked bitterly.

Skye shifted back and smacked me. “It’s a curse, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it our own blessing, John.”

“Besides, that would make two of us.” Sherlock smiled wryly. It took a moment for me to realise what he meant – he proclaimed himself a high-functioning sociopath, after all. Did he really see himself that way or was that a blind to everyone who threw ‘psycho’ at him?

But I was a fucking _werewolf_ , for God’s sake. How could that ever be a blessing?

And apparently the bloody kid was still a little telepathic, because though Sherlock settled back down on the couch like a curly-haired cat, pulled his laptop – his for once – back towards him and began fiddling with it, Skye yanked me aside.

“For one, your senses should be sharper, much sharper, than a normal human’s, even than Sherlock’s. Because of a wolf’s need to hunt, you should be able to track scents anywhere from a few minutes to a few days old, sometimes even older than that. That is, if you can ever accept that wolf of yours. He appears to be a completely separate entity. Sherlock, take care of him.” This last was said to my flatmate, who was in the middle of research, so I doubt he heard him.

With that, the little enigma who’d decided to invade my life to help me shrugged his denim jacket more comfortably around his shoulders, adjusted his gloves, and made for the door.

“Hold on, where’re you going?” I demanded. “You can’t just swan off!”

“Yes I can,” Skye called over his shoulder. “This is me, swanning off.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not abandoning you if that’s what you think. I’m going off to pull in every favour I have with every British contact I’ve got to find out everything I can about your particular type of werewolf.”

Sherlock was a lot more help than this kid. At least he was staying here. “But Sherlock’s –”

“Already doing that, I know. But he doesn’t have the contacts I do, and he certainly doesn’t have the same view of London’s supernatural underworld. I have quite a few friends here. They’ll love this.” He winked. “Oh, and tell Sherlock to look for other British werewolves, non-savage ones. They’ll help.”

Of course! The murderer had told us to ‘sod off’, that he wasn’t sharing. That meant he knew that other werewolves existed in the London vicinity. At least one had to have turned him – what else could explain the sudden up-cropping of disembowelled humans?

Sadly, just as Skye opened the door, a very familiar silver-haired DI stumbled through, clearly not expecting the door to be suddenly opened.

“Greg!” I greeted my friend, as Skye vanished and shut the door behind him. “How are you? Coffee?”

“No thanks,” said our favourite DI, if only for the fact that he didn’t insult Sherlock maliciously. “Just dropping by to run a case by you. I’ve had coffee too.”

“Otherwise busy,” Sherlock snapped from his place on the couch.

I looked helplessly at Greg, who shrugged. “One of the bodies looked half-eaten – strays, I’d think. The other one had a necklace shoved down ‘is throat.” The older man crossed his arms. “Weird break-in at the jewellery store near the scene too – something must’ve crashed into it and scattered some o’ the stuff. Nothing’s been reported missing yet, but looks promising.”

“Otherwise busy,” Sherlock repeated in annoyance.

“Sorry, Greg, looks like he’s found something else to occupy himself with.” I gave the DI a look of sympathy. “Thanks for running it by us.”

“Was it that kid I ran into?” he wondered. “Bugger; looks like he got here before I could.”

“It wasn’t him, necessarily.” It was true Skye was involved in the matter Sherlock was so absorbed in, but he was hardly the direct cause. After all, it wasn’t him who tried to make a meal of my chest.

Greg nodded and was out the door. Skye burst back in, looking more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than I’d yet seen him. “The wheels are in motion. I’ve messaged my most reliable London contacts. Given the pair’s speed, info should be in about two or three hours.” He looked remarkably pleased with himself.

I sighed. “Who are we talking about?” Great. Two more people to contend with. I only hoped the feral thing inside me didn’t snap at the people who tried to help me. Like Skye, annoyingly cheery as he was.

“Phoenix Wilde and RJ Hawthorne, and they understand the situation completely,” Skye assured me. “They’re both discreet and very trustworthy. Awesome friends, by the way. In fact, they’re something like you two.”

“How, exactly?”

“Well, for one, RJ is shorter than Phoenix.”

“Oi!” I tried to keep the growl out of my voice. Sadly I failed, but Skye seemed unfazed. “I should be back with a progress report from them in a few hours. In the meantime, don’t look for me. I’ll be in the undercity, and that’s not a nice place to be when you’re a new werewolf.”

“You’re a boy!” I objected. “How can you even try to defend yourself? Here.” I offered him my gun.

He laughed in my face!

His blue eyes glittered. “I may be barely twenty-two, but I’m a born werewolf. If anything crosses me…” He bared his teeth. “Let them try.” He smiled, and for an instant I was terrified. He looked menacing. Perhaps not quite as scary as Sherlock when something or someone he cared about (Mrs. Hudson, for example) was hurt, but he ran a good second.

“I’m off again. And, John? Sherlock’s a keeper.” He nodded at my flatmate, and I tried to shake myself and not let him see how much his words affected me. God knows how much I wished for more, but that just wasn’t Sherlock’s thing. _Stop it, or you’ll wallow_.

One look at his retreating back, and I realised he hadn’t meant those words that way. I looked over at the detective, and he was deep in his research, iridescent chameleon eyes scanning the screen.

I resolved to let the words slip my mind.


	2. Pack and Mate [Sherlock]

I have to admit, this took me completely off guard. What I had previously discounted as impossible was suddenly very, very real – hell, the Ayhan werewolf, Skye, had transformed right in front of my eyes! I had to go into my mind palace and fix a few things that were malfunctioning because of it.

John seemed almost normal aside from the feral episodes, though he insisted on researching the contagion of his condition, whatever Skye said.

Working side by side on the sofa, each on our respective laptops, John would sometimes peek over my shoulder to look at my assembled articles. At one point he told me, “Look at this.” Apparently you could become a werewolf by sleeping outside with the moonlight shining on your face – absolute hogwash. “I’d have a Wolves’ Network,” I remarked whimsically. John laughed.

I was frightened by how easily John could be set off. Things that he would have slipped past without even a comment now elicited growls that sent a frisson of terror up my spine, much as I hated to admit it. I could tell even he was confused by it, so I tried not to tiptoe around him so obviously.

Once, my temper was pushed a little too far by his newfound sensitivity, and I snarled back at him when he lashed out over something inconsequential – I think it was the head I had in the fridge again. In any case, fire glittered in his eyes and he cuffed me across the face so hard and so surprisingly that I was sent sprawling on the floor.

Incensed, I leapt up in retaliation only to be knocked flat. His eyes – his eyes were blue fire, and before I knew it I was apologising almost hysterically. Damnable survival instinct should have known that it was _John_. He would never have killed me, werewolf or no.

Skye stepped in with his deliberate, authoritative gait, and flicked his eyes over me, then helped me up. “John,” he said, without turning around. “Maybe not so violently next time. Never attack pack.”

“Attack? He was subduing me,” I protested.

The younger blond turned to me. For the first time I caught a glimpse of the icy, harsh, purely wolfish core that had allowed the young man to survive to reach the age of twenty-two. “No, but he did it so violently others might think he is. No man is an island, Sherlock. Not even wolves. In fact they’re intensely social creatures, and while John has his pack – which is you – he needs to be able to interact with other werewolves without any hitches. And no wolf likes one who attacks his own pack.”

I tried not to show my surprise at being called John’s pack. “I’m pack to him? I rather thought non-werewolves became outliers.”

Skye rolled his eyes. “Humans and werewolves are closely related, so obviously humans count as pack if so chosen. And you – you’re so obviously pack it makes my teeth hurt.” He licked his two front teeth for emphasis. “I’m going to get cavities from you two.”

I scowled at him. Even if he could see so clearly through me, why did he have to broadcast it? I had long admitted my sentiment for my blogger – though not to him, or to _anyone_ , certainly. Why did this young boy of all people see through my act? Or – I realised it from the nonchalance – he didn’t; he just thought the ‘friendship’ part was so sweet it hurt.

Well, he was right there. It was. And it did.

I was admittedly horrified when John informed me that he would be moving out – alone – and I strenuously objected, all the while trying to quell the anguish at the back of my throat. I surely couldn’t revert to my life without my conductor of light, not as a result of my own stupidity and boredom. “ _It should have been me,_ John. I'm not letting you go through this on your own,” I declared earnestly. After all, he had been the one to push me out of the way – I should have been the target of that attack.

“You don’t have to – to think like that, Sherlock. You don’t have to do any of this,” he countered. Why didn’t he see how very necessary he was? I wasn’t being – God forbid – _sappy_ , I was stating a fact.

I shut him down, obviously. “You don't get to have things your way, John. Not this time. Not about this.”

Thankfully, he relented. Skye, when he came by and heard about this episode, backed me up strongly, so I tried not to be too smug about it, though I don’t think John would have minded. He himself looked relieved.

I knew he knew I knew he had a silver bullet created. I refused to give voice to the pain that washed over me when I realized it. John was John, didn’t he see that? Despite being bitten, he was still his loyal, brave, patient self – if a little less patient than he was used to. He would never become a monster. I decided to ignore the issue, even if the relevant place in my mind palace now noted the location of that bullet.

We did attempt the mildest of the remedies we found (though I concur with him in that there is really nothing mild about drinking so much vinegar. It made him sick, as did most of the others), though judging by the continued presence of the shorter temper and the continued assertive behaviour of the other werewolf, they had no effect.

John tried to convince me to try some of the more – vicious – treatments. When I recalled what those entailed (such as piercing the werewolf’s hands with nails) I shot him down. “I'm not  _torturing_ you, John,” I stated firmly.

“Any agony would be worth it if it made it safe for people to be around me again,” he replied, steel in the edge of his voice. This was Doctor Watson, who spoke for the greater good. How I hated him just then!

I pointed out that the wolf was likely to attack viciously if we tried to drive him out so brutally.

John was forced to recognise that wasn’t wrong, and backed off the topic for a few days. As I predicted, when Skye heard about this, he rolled his eyes, but refused to comment.

“You’re the werewolf,” I pleaded (yes, I was actually pleading to this pup). “He’ll listen to you.”

“Like hell he will,” Skye answered hotly. “I’m Ayhan, not British, and he wouldn’t know me if not for You-Know-What. Besides, I’m just the mentor.” He looked pointedly at me.

“I’m just the flatmate.”

“And best friend,” Skye singsonged. “And only confidant. And closest thing to family he’s had since his sister’s drinking problem escalated.” The brat was perched on the kitchen counter, and had rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

“Alright, alright, no need to belabour the point,” I barked. It looked like in this department I was on my own.

When John again tried to persuade me to attempt the abominations, I repeated that I was in no way going to torture him, even if the wolf made it unsafe to be around him. “We’ll find a way that doesn’t involve unnecessary torture,” I said forcefully.

“It’s not just you and me we’re talking about,” John argued. “It’s Mrs. Hudson, and Greg – Lestrade – and Molly, and everyone else I interact with. Seriously, even my patients at the clinic could be in danger.”

“I’m not torturing you!” I gritted out. Hadn’t we had enough of this? “It is totally unnecessary, excessively painful, not to mention extremely difficult to do – and I would let it rip me apart for doing that to you.” I bit my tongue – stupid, Sherlock.

To my relief, John relented.

* * *

“What about wolfsbane?” he asked, not too long after the incident in which he struck me.

 _Aconitum napellus_ , also known as monkshood or wolfsbane. It was a perfectly lethal poison for regular humans, if thought to cure lycanthropy. After all, though he was a werewolf, John was a human. If it didn’t kill him, I doubted it would cure his condition. Unfortunately, I had no evidence for or against the latter claim, as my only reliable authority had taken to clearing out during these talks of remedies.

If only I could do the same.

But I had plenty of evidence to support the former claim; that wolfsbane was lethal even for normal humans. I could name all the murderers who had used it in the past century, as well as going through what details of each murder I had saved.

I couldn’t have him die because I hadn’t been the one the wolf’s teeth had torn into, and survive that knowledge. But I did have one last hope.

We couldn’t cure his condition, but we could learn to live with it. Once, when John was out doing some errand or other, I laid my plan out before Skye. Annoying though the Pup could be, he had survived about 260 full moons (if I was correct about his earliest memories being from both forms), and was the expert.

I had done some research on true wolves, and learned that packs, though easily dissolved and easily abandoned, defended each other and their territory fiercely. Skye provided some hints there. Perched on the arm of my chair, he told me that Ayhan werewolf packs bonded so deeply with each other that even in feral full-moon form they refused to hurt their own packmates.

“It’s an instinct,” Skye had explained. “In Ayha, werewolves revert to their basest and most primal senses, and even those include pack protectiveness. It’s a long shot, but it could work.”

Finally the full moon was upon us. That afternoon, I caught John staring at his gun. (I may or may not have invaded his bedroom.) Skye was in voluntary wolf form and was rubbing up against him comfortingly. I had to admit I wasn’t threatened by the Pup’s presence. He made decent food and tea (though he didn’t get the principle of drinking it at all) and didn’t disturb me in my mind palace,

All in all, he was a truly wolfish companion who rather grew on you. Though he couldn’t help me solve John’s problem (‘ _There’s no true cure for Ayhan lycanthropy_.’) he did help as much as he could (‘ _I can only help so much. You two have to do the rest. I’m not officially pack, so it has to be Sherlock_.’).

But the silver bullet was loaded. I felt the finality of it resting on me like the weight of a dead body. If my plan failed, John wouldn’t allow himself to live.

“Please don’t,” fell in a hoarse whisper from my mouth. Damnable loose tongue!

“I’m not going to be a monster,” he replied, too calmly, like someone ready to die. “Think of it like putting down a rabid dog.”

“No, John! Nobody else will get put down, _please_ ,” I cried. Shameful slip of the tongue, that ‘else’, but his words could not help but make me think of my childhood dog. No. I would not feel that wretchedness, that helplessness, again. Once was enough and John was not a dog.

“What else can I do, Sherlock?” he asked, letting his defeat colour his voice. He turned to the dusky-gold wolf beside him. “You have any alternatives, Skye?”

The Pup chuffed lightly and rubbed his muzzle on John’s chest. Almost as though marking him. He didn’t say – or think – a word, though, because John sighed. But a private telepathic thought reached me: _Now_.

“Let me try one last thing.”

“What?” he queried, eyes shining with anticipation for my grand solution, with hope that I could be _brilliant_ and _amazing_ and _fantastic_ once more and make the problem disappear. My chest ached with the longing that I could. If only I could.

“Trust me one last time, John,” I entreated, worried that he would deem controlling him not good enough and go ahead and shoot anyway, so I was purposefully vague. Skye privately agreed with me.

I came up with a compromise. “If it comforts you, I’ll even take the gun. If what I have in mind doesn’t work, I’ll kill you myself before I let you murder anyone. I swear.” I left out the fact that if that happened I would follow him, but I must have let the sincerity through, since he handed me the gun without a peep.

Skye came over, chuffed approvingly, and snapped at my hand fondly. _You’re doing well, Sherlock_ , he thought. I nodded at him. _If only this works_ , I thought to myself.

“Come back down,” I requested. He complied, and I made him tea to let him think that I wanted to try some potion or other, or perhaps make a last-minute attempt with the wolfsbane (as if, really).

The afternoon wiled away into sunset. When the cooling night air and the darkening sky heralded moonrise, John grit out, “It didn’t work. Shoot, Sherlock!”

Skye streaked out the door. _I’ll give you two some privacy. First shift is always the hardest_ , was his parting thought to me. _If you need me, cry out for help. The Wolves will tell me_.

I stood perfectly still, the safety of the gun in my hand still on. I was acutely aware that I was betraying him in a way, but I needed to try this one last resort.

“ _Shoot_ , goddammit!”

I merely stood between him and the flat’s door, adrenaline flying through my bloodstream. Though my heart pounded in my chest and my blood roared in my ears, I was overtaken by the calm and cold of the case. My senses were on the alert, my brain up and running perfectly. I was in top condition.

He couldn’t yell anymore, because he started to transform. I was very nearly shaken out of my cool shell by his screaming. Oh God, that screaming! I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in that John was alright underneath all that. The screams turned to yowls mercifully soon, and almost before I had time to be spooked I was faced with a majestic gold-and-silver wolf.

He wasn’t like Skye at all. While Skye was dusky gold, dark silver, and blinding white like a desert, John was shining gold and pure silver like a crown. I was being horribly sentimental with these romanticised descriptions, but it seemed fitting. He was bigger than Skye, but was otherwise familiar.

Wolf-John stalked towards me. Time to make my attempt.

German lore says that to survive meeting a werewolf you have to call his name three times and he'll turn back into a man. Danish legends say to scold the werewolf if you meet one. Just that.

“John,” I called, my voice steady and unwavering. I tried not to think about the gun in my other hand.

“John.”

“John.”

“What?” he grumbled. I was taken aback before I remembered that Skye was an Ayhan werewolf, and that the British one had talked normally. Going by his tone, Wolf-John was annoyed – at least if I read him right. It was hard enough for me when I read humans.

“Where do you think you're going?” I asked. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid of the wolf itself, only for what would happen if I failed to execute my ‘experiment’ successfully.

“Out,” he answered simply, and oh, how much it resembled when John couldn't stand me anymore. If I had closed my eyes I could have believed he was only upset about the eyeballs in the microwave. Again. But I had a job to do.

“I can't let you. Not tonight,” I stated firmly. A bolt of pure determination shot through my transport and mind like the most potent cocktail of drugs. I was sure that it was Skye who had sent me that bolt of steel when I needed it, and I could have sworn I heard the whisper of a thought: _Good_.

“ _Let me_?” he growled.

“John,” I said again, bolder this time. Skye was there. He was backup, however much I hated backup. Hopefully John’s name would keep the wolf’s attention on me.  “Why do you want to leave?”

“To hunt.”

“There's nothing to hunt in London,” I replied flatly.

“Oh, I'm sure I could find something,” he said, sniffing loudly. I had to remind myself that this was still John, even should their personalities prove disparate. This was still my flatmate, however far removed he was from the forefront of that wolfish mind.

“There's nothing to hunt,” I reiterated, injecting a hint of the steel Skye used into my voice. Did that count as scolding? Skye had made it clear that he was alpha, so I wasn’t.

“Repeating yourself, Sherlock?” The wolf actually guffawed.

“If you're too slow to understand,” I countered, managing to sound nonchalant. A reckless idea, probably formed from adrenaline, whimsy, and episodes of playing with a shifted Skye, flashed in my head, and I added, “You know, there's something I could agree to have you hunt.”

“What?” the creature queried, excited, looking like he'd wag his tail if he had had one. Breathing heightened, ears pricked up – I had his attention, alright.

“Me. Give me ten minutes of head start and then come find me. But no getting distracted along the way, or I'll win too easily.” The challenge should have kept him focused. And if he took the term _hunt_ too literally and actually attacked… well, there was the gun I still held, safety still on.

“Run!” he barked, with a crooked grin.

I tore through the door, not bothering to shut it. Ripping down the stairs and out the front door of 221, I raced down the street with my transport thrumming with excitement. I loved this part of a case, if it ever came, though not as much as the mental stimulation part. He did catch up with me, of course, and I almost slowed to admire the smoothness of his run. Truly, Nature had moulded the wolf – and werewolf – for the hunt.

He snapped at my heels and fingers, but I was under no delusion that he couldn’t have bitten me if he had wanted to. My practice runs with Skye had the Pup nipping at me, showing me what wolves did when they were really hunting. Wolf-John was doing none of those things. He was play-hunting.

It felt like a cross between playing with Redbeard and leading John in pursuit of some criminal's trail, and I kept from giggling with sheer giddiness only because it would waste breath. I needed it to run.

Once we left Baker Street, a familiar smaller dusky-gold wolf joined us. He bit at John, but soon after the larger wolf had him bowled over and whining for mercy. I smiled, catching my breath. It seemed Skye had conceded the alpha position.

We resumed the chase, and I swear I saw Wolf-Skye wink as he dropped back and veered away.

Even flooded with giddy joy and admiration, I still had the presence of mind to keep our path as far from the busier roads as possible. It wouldn’t really do to scare random civilians, and to a stranger, John looked a fearsome thing, but I found him wonderful, even like this. Still, I knew him.

Another reason for veering away from the more frequented roads was Mycroft’s cameras, but there were simply too many. Ah well, I would simply have to explain, possibly fight my brother to remain by John’s side. Overbearing berk.

I used my extensive knowledge of London’s back-alleys and side-streets to both heighten the heady feeling of the chase, and to test Wolf-John’s agility, which turned out to be remarkable.

It must have been hours before I finally ran back home, night wind rife with cold and wolves’ howls and the moon high above us. “Should have hunted seriously,” Wolf-John said, the moment we were back in the flat. “So hungry.”

I had expected that, and prepared accordingly. I had bought some meat earlier, obviously without his knowledge because John would have deduced that I meant to manage his transformations, and stashed it in the fridge behind but separate from the body parts so John wouldn’t find them. A few sausages would make a decent entrée while I cooked the rest. I was adamant on cooking, trying to maintain as much human customs as I could even with John in such a shape.

Wolf-John expressed pleasant surprise. I don’t think he thought me capable of such ‘thoughtfulness’, as he termed it – or even cooking at all. Soon, though, he shocked me in turn.

He was emptying his second plate when he offhandedly remarked, “You're really a good mate.”

I almost burned myself. Of course I was still cooking, because he’d likely consumed enormous amounts of energy by transforming and ‘hunting’ like that. There was a reason most true wolves ate meat by the deer (elk, moose, etc., as the case may be). I snapped at myself for being stupid. Just because he looked like this he wouldn't use words as if they concerned a real wolf. “Mate as in fellow?” I asked anyway.

He huffed. “Mate as in life partner. In every sense.” And then volunteered, “Wolves mate for life.”

“John... are you asking?” I queried, more shakily than I would have liked. How much of my friend really existed in the conscious mind of the creature before me? Could I take his word for it?

“I'm stating,” Wolf-John countered. That had me flopping into the nearest chair. “Everyone knows,” he added, leaping down from the couch and curling half-around me. Bastard; he had effectively trapped me.

“And you always deny it,” I replied softly. It positively irked John. Why the change of heart?

“Not me. The idiot,” he barked.

Ignoring the sting, I had my answer. John and Wolf-John had different personalities, with opposite wishes; different personalities who evidently didn’t like each other very much. I was caught in the middle, and much to my misfortune, I quite liked both of them. In truth, I liked John far too much. It would indubitably break me, sooner rather than later… but I did not have the willpower to do anything about it.

The smell of something burning broke that supremely awkward moment. “Sorry,” I said, moving to throw the ruined dish away.

“Not that hungry anymore,” Wolf-John (note to self: make up a better name for Wolf-John) assured me. Then he startled me again, nuzzling my hand and saying, “I don't suppose you'd sleep with me.”

“I can't,” I said simply. Not just because of the technicalities. (He may be tailless, but how much wolf anatomy did Wolf-John retain? I was sure humans were not made to accommodate knots. It was enough to make anyone terrified of intercourse.) Because  _John_ didn't want to sleep with me, he'd always been more than explicit about that, and I couldn't do that to him.

“Cuddling?” he suggested hopefully, and I gave into him. We settled onto the sofa, and I hugged him. I’m not ashamed to say I stroked the gold-and-silver fur. It was like hugging Redbeard again, although the smell was distinctly different. The sofa surprisingly accommodated a rather large werewolf and a tall man somewhat comfortably, and I found that it was far more than nostalgia. I liked this. I would miss it.


	3. Day Brings Discoveries [John]

I was woken up by a loud snore.

Groggy and disorientated, I came fully to and realised that I was naked on the sofa with a thankfully dressed consulting detective draped over me. My other first thought was _I’m alive_.

 _Sherlock didn’t kill me_.

He didn’t shoot.

 ** _Bastard_**.

I felt a bit betrayed, especially since my memories of the night before were muddled and my prevalent emotion was a very woozy feeling of foreboding. Something was wrong. I was a monster.

I investigated the snoring that had woken me up and wasn’t surprised to find my blond fellow werewolf passed out on the rug, stretched out and seemingly enjoying himself. He snored very loudly for such a small boy.

Said boy, I reminded myself, was twenty-two. God I felt old.

Since Sherlock was asleep, I wasn’t covered in blood, and it didn’t look like we’d done anything other than crash on the couch, I wasn’t unduly alarmed. I disentangled myself from my flatmate (whose arms were much more comfortable than they had any right to be) and headed for the bathroom. It wouldn’t do to have Skye wake up and find me like that.

However, my hopes for returning for a bit more of that hug were dashed once I came back with a dressing gown on and no internal pressure from my bladder. The detective was alert and Skye was stretching luxuriously.

“Good morning,” I greeted them. “Sleep well?” I stalked into the kitchen and returned some minutes later with tea for me and Sherlock and cocoa for Skye. I didn’t feel hungry, which made me even more uneasy and even angrier at Sherlock.

“The best I’ve slept in a while, thanks,” Skye answered, accepting his cocoa happily and taking a long drink. Due to Sherlock’s propensity to experiment and our discovery of an article that proposed that drinking water from a werewolf’s footprint could turn you, Skye and I had reserved mugs for ourselves, and used only those, as well as preventing Sherlock from using them.

“You slept on the rug,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes,” Skye said, scrambling up to perch on the arm of the sofa. “A furry rug is infinitely more comfortable than a skip, isn’t it?”

“You slept in skips?” I cried. “You could’ve just asked, we’d have put you up on the sofa.”

Skye snorted in a manner that sounded very like his wolf form’s chuff.  I took a sip, sitting on my chair, but then my worries slipped out. “I'm alive. Not that I'm complaining – well, not exactly...” I was complaining, honestly. But it seemed rude to do so. And perhaps Sherlock had a valid excuse. Oh God, what if I'd attacked him, bitten him, and then he'd changed too? Wait, no, he was dressed with no evidence of a wound. Was that even a real clue either way?

“There was no reason to eliminate you, John,” my friend replied calmly.

“No reason?” I echoed, anger rising from deep inside my gut. I was a _monster_. There was every fucking reason to put me down. Sherlock had even promised, and then he'd failed me. Yes, it seemed stupid to seethe against being alive, but I didn't want to be a bloodthirsty  _thing._

“John,” Skye piped up from my chair. “Recall Sherlock’s caveat: _if what I have in mind doesn’t work , I’ll kill you myself_. He didn’t kill you, ergo his plan worked. Seriously.”

My anger was roused even more by the fact that he rolled his eyes as though saying in true Sherlock fashion ‘Your angsting is boring. Please move on.’

“I am a _beast!_ ” I snapped at him. “And the plan failed – I still turned into a monster.”

“Enough!” Skye hissed. Blue fire ignited in glacial eyes, and as he deliberately set down his cup and stalked towards me, awareness and caution tingled in my spine.

And yet another instinct curled in my chest; I was the leader. I was superior in position to this Pup and he should know that. I bared my teeth at him and snarled. Amazingly, he dropped back and perched on my armchair with a look of approval.

Sherlock’s iridescent eyes took in the scene, and I had a feeling he knew what had just happened. “As I said, there was no reason to eliminate you. You harmed no one. It hardly seemed fair to kill you over fur." Whimsically, he added, “Not even if you were shedding everywhere.”

Skye laughed, and I chuckled awkwardly at his quip. “So you’re saying I’m a harmless little doggy?” It couldn’t be that simple, could it? I’d seen the werewolf that turned me, and though Skye was a likable little boy most of the time, I’d seen glimpses of his pure-steel wolfish core. True wolves were harsh at their best and vicious at their worst. And our sources were coherent in describing werewolves as bloodthirsty, more often than not cannibalistic, monsters. So why wouldn't  _I_  be?

“I would hardly have described you as little,” Sherlock told me. “Your size was more than respectable.”

“Do you remember the werewolf who bit you?” Skye said. “You were as big as that. It was _magnificent._ ” Sherlock nodded. The genuine smile on their faces comforted me somewhat, but I was still unnerved. “So I didn’t kill anyone?” I repeated to Sherlock.

“You could have, but you chose not to,” he answered, with his air of ‘that’s-obvious-John-why-can’t-you-see-it’.

“I chose not to? On my own?” Was I a lazy werewolf? A peaceful werewolf? – On second thought, did the latter even exist? I rescinded that thought at the sight of Skye, watching us intently. Skye was fiercely protective, but he wasn’t violent.

“I might have persuaded you. Offered an acceptable alternative. But you were surprisingly amenable to it. Really, I wouldn't mind spending a few nights each month ensuring that you don't do anything that you might regret later,” Sherlock said with a half-smile.

What kind of statement was that? An acceptable alternative? For all I knew an ‘acceptable’ alternative to my inner wolf was to tear up pets. What exactly did I do last night?

Skye must have picked up on that thought, because he said, “I only joined you for a short time before running off to forage, but it looked like some very harmless fun. Tag, to be precise.” Sherlock actually blushed at that, and Skye rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so embarrassed, Sherlock. Everyone’s done it at some point in their lives, unless they were unable to.”

“Playing tag, huh?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow and easing into my chair so as not to spill my drink.

“It’s… an adequate description,” Sherlock replied, looking rather sheepish. “But you enjoyed it.”

“That was when you became alpha,” Skye informed me. “I ceded the position since you’d had your first shift.”

“So what, you’re the beta now?” I asked. How did werewolf pack positions _work_?

“No, I’m the omega. _Of course_ I’m the beta. _For now_. When I’m gone you can leave whoever you like. Perhaps that silver fox of a DI.” He’d known Greg was a DI all along? What kind of a sniffer dog was this boy? (Not Anderson, that was for sure. Skye was much less disagreeable and much keener.)

“Sherlock… did I eat something?” _Please tell me I didn’t eat pets or people alive_. Skye snorted from the arm of the sofa.

“Sausages and pork fillet, John. After all that running, it didn't seem right to starve you. I didn't think you'd be contrary,” Sherlock explained, looking vaguely puzzled. It seemed he sensed my unease but was confused as to the reason.

“Oh, good.” No missing pets… or people. “Oh no, I’m not. Just… I didn’t know we had those in the fridge.” He must have hidden it behind all the body parts. I doubted my wolf minded very much.

“If you'd rather have a different menu tonight, buy whatever you want, though I'd advise you to keep it meat-based,” my friend suggested. Skye agreed. “Wolves are carnivores, and though Ayhan werewolves are omnivorous I don’t think British werewolves have the stomach. It’s a culture thing. Just stick to protein.”

After a few quiet moments, Sherlock blurted out, “Are we agreed then? Can I make sure your danger nights are fine like you do for mine? No need for silver bullets, poisons or other absurd projects of the same ilk?”

“Just a few nights, is it? You don't mind, you say. Of course you don't. You have no case going presently.” Fine, it wasn't the kindest objection, but I needed him to realize that this couldn’t very feasibly be a long-term arrangement. I didn’t have any other options, though…

“I promise, John. I'm not about to leave you on your own on such a night. Not even if Moriarty came back to play,” Sherlock assured me earnestly. The Pup barked (I had no idea he could do that in human form) approvingly, and only gave us a big grin when we turned his way in confusion.

But I still hated it. I hated that the psychotic bastard was Sherlock's epitome of a tempting case. I let out a feral growl, for once conscious of what was happening. Perhaps because tonight would be a full moon too and the wolf was close to the surface. Or it might be because I agreed perfectly with my inner wolf. If Moriarty came back, I would happily do away with my humanity for a while and just rip him apart. I somehow doubted that his snipers were equipped with silver bullets.

 “Relax, John. He's not here, and with a bit of luck, we won't see him ever again,” Sherlock pleaded, his voice placating, almost hypnotic.

I calmed down, but only a fraction, more because of his tone than for his lies. I called him out on them, grumbling, “Oh no. he'll be back for you. Of course he will. And you'll love it again.” I had never complained about it before, but it didn't mean that I loathed it any less.

“I don't think I would enjoy it, John,” Sherlock replied. “It stopped being fun when things got personal. I don't like being toyed with at all.”

Strangely, that did the trick and left me perfectly placid. Sherlock _didn't_ miss Moriarty, and apparently it was all I asked. Reasonable, in a way, since this month he'd been so focused on me, and I was afraid that he regretted that choice. These past four weeks had only seen cases he’d normally have spurned as too easy – not quite Bluebell level, but some came quite close. Skye had actually offered to introduce a friend of his who was like Sherlock himself, but I had gotten a bit restless at the mention of him and Sherlock had refused.

“But for the ridiculous notion that I would leave you alone when you needed me, you have no objection to let me take care of you during your transformation?” Sherlock queried, looking at me with the put-upon air of having to deal with idiocy, but with a sort of anxiety underneath. Huh?

“It's not ridiculous,” I protested. “It might not be a problem tonight or tomorrow, but I can't ask you to manage my full moons on a regular basis. It'd be too big of a burden, Sherlock. I can't possibly...”

I never got to end that sentence, because he cut in, “John. I _want_ to.” His eagerness surprised me. There was almost urgency in his voice. I looked over at Skye for support – after all, he didn’t ask anyone for help on his full moons – but he was gone, and the door was slightly ajar.

So no help from Skye, then. And yet… eager though Sherlock seemed to handle my full moons, I was still uncertain. I should be able to handle them by myself. “If you’re sure,” I said at last. “But at the first sign of any violence, I’m moving out.”

He wrinkled his nose unreadably. “Fine.”

I relaxed, and so did he. Sometimes I forgot that the likes of Donovan and Anderson called him a freak, but at times like this I found it in myself to wonder why. He was abrasive, sure, and could be a stroppy toddler when he wanted to be, but he did have a heart, contrary to their claims. “Look, it’s not like I want to be suicidal, Sherlock. But I wouldn’t have a choice if you hadn’t agreed to this. So… thank you.”

The poor detective actually looked confused! “What for?”

“Well, if I had to trust anyone with it, it’d be you, even if you weren’t involved from the start. I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

Sherlock flashed a closed-mouth smile before huffing. “Your consistently good character is to be credited for how easy it is to manage such times, John. Otherwise I’m sure I would have given up.”

Okay, that was a bit confusing there. Obviously he meant it as some sort of compliment, but I was uncomfortable with it all the same, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.

Before we could swamped in awkwardness, we were disturbed by steps on the stairs. It wasn’t Skye – his step was lighter and faster – and the deliberate gait made me think of Mycroft instantly. And speak of the devil, next minute he was sitting in Sherlock’s chair. I didn’t really like that Mycroft had free access to 221 Baker Street, especially because, like his little brother, he couldn’t be bothered to knock unless he was being purposefully polite. Still, he cared about Sherlock too, so some allowances had to be made.

“What do you want?” I asked, nonchalant with a note of a growl in it. The wolf didn’t appreciate the strange, arrogant man intruding on his territory, and it showed. I only prayed it wouldn’t suddenly take over and tear Mycroft’s throat out.

Uncharacteristically, he came straight to the point. “I saw something that concerned me on the surveillance footage of last night,” he replied. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, Sherlock.”

His brother curled up on the sofa with a huff. I interceded. “Maybe it was a – I dunno, trick of the light or something?” Dammit but I was still uncomfortable with the idea of him knowing about my lycanthropy.

If he was Sherlock he would have rolled his eyes and spat out that being deliberately obtuse didn’t suit me. As it was, the contempt in the slow blink of his eyes and the shift of his shoulders was enough. “I know what I saw, Dr. Watson,” he said. “It was most definitely a dog – joined by another for a short time, at that.” He turned to Sherlock. “Was it wise, brother mine?”

My instincts flared up. If Mycroft got any inkling that I could possibly be dangerous, he would remove me from Baker Street – more likely from Sherlock’s life entirely – and I couldn’t let that happen. Terrified, I snapped, “I don’t see how it’s any of your business what Sherlock does with his free time.”

Mycroft took a breath and looked at me. “When he was a child we owned a dog; Sherlock adored it –”

“– him,” the detective snarled from the sofa.

“– him,” Mycroft conceded. “The dog eventually had to be put down, and my brother was heartbroken for a time afterwards. Considering that, I don’t think it’s very appropriate for him to become attached to someone else’s pet.”

“Unless he developed allergies somehow between then and now I don’t think that’s a problem,” I shot back. My wolf was sending a clear message with gritted teeth and low voice: _Back off, Mycroft_.

But Sherlock was very clearly sulking and hurt that his brother had told me the story of the childhood dog. Suddenly his words of the afternoon before made sense ( _nobody else will be put down_). I was glad the issue had been explained, though I would have to telegraph it to the younger brother without the older one knowing.

“If you were coming to warn me off, too late, brother mine,” Sherlock announced, twisting our way from the sofa. I looked up in alarm. _Don’ttellpleasedon’ttell_ , I tried to tell him frantically. “I’ve already agreed to care for it for a few days.” It? Really?

“You’ve taken up dog-sitting now, have you?” Mycroft seemed derisive, but I detected a slight scent of fear rolling off him. What was he afraid of?

“It’s for a _case_.” The younger Holmes rolled his eyes to the ceiling, stressing the word as if exasperated with repetition. Hopefully his brother bought it, but I had faith in Sherlock’s acting abilities.

Said brother clearly didn’t believe him, but it was a tight enough argument that he wouldn’t look into it too closely. I began to breathe easier, knowing my secret was safe. Unfortunately, that didn’t last very long.

Skye burst in, bright as always and grinning with merriment. And before I could warn him about the stranger in the room, he shifted and bounded over to me, putting his paws in my lap and lolling his tongue out in a delighted wolf-laugh.

I’m ashamed to say I panicked instantly.

Mycroft, however, panicked far more visibly. He stiffened, and his knuckles whitened as he clutched his umbrella tighter. I tried to placate him, my hand firm on Skye’s head. “You’re okay, Mycroft, you’re alright,” I told him, a slight hysteria colouring my words. “He’s perfectly safe.”

Sherlock darted up and ordered his brother out; he was swiftly and surprisingly obeyed, Mycroft shifting glances at Skye’s claws and fangs. Looking horrified, Skye sat on his haunches and flicked his tail at me. Somehow, I understood what his body language was saying: _Who is he?_

I leaned down and whispered, “Mycroft.”

 _I didn’t know Sherlock had a brother_ , Skye thought at me. _That scent labels him as Sherlock’s brother as clearly as your name labels you_.

“Is that safe for you to do, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked from the door.

“Perfectly, now shoo,” his brother replied perfunctorily, almost shoving him out the door and shutting it behind him. “What were you thinking?” he hissed at Skye, throwing himself down on the floor in front of Skye and cuffing him lightly. Skye, to my shock, dropped his gaze and his ears. Since his eartips were still higher than Sherlock’s head, he lowered himself, actually assuming a submissive position.

My questioning thought must have been heard, because he thought: _I cede my beta position_. The hidden fear buried in my subconscious was quieted; he hadn’t picked up on my longing.

My next thought was: _Does **nobody** ever knock in this flat?_

Because a wiry little redhead burst through the door and saluted to Skye, who leapt at him, shifting back to human in mid-air and pinning him to the wall. “Insubordination, Wilde?” he asked, coldly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” gasped the redhead, Wilde. “There’s been an incident with the wolves near Lexington. It’s urgent – they’ve taken Rollo.” His amber eyes were blown wide with fear, and even from this distance I could see that he was trembling.

“God above!” Skye swore. “Let’s _go_. I can rally the ones near Northumberland Street.” He turned to us. “You two, you’re coming. No arguments! John needs to get used to having other wolves around.”

“But it’s daytime,” I protested.

Skye’s eyebrow twitched. “And werewolves are always werewolves, whether transformed or not. Now, don’t be tedious, come on!”

* * *

Before long we were dashing through the streets of London, heading for the exact area where RJ Hawthorne had been kidnapped. “We’d just finished up here,” said Wilde. “Both of us had had breakfast, and he’d had coffee. I hailed a cab, just like this” – he raised a hand and let it down again – “and got in, readying my wallet in my pocket. I heard the cab door slam – nothing peculiar about that – and he was gone. I leapt out and surveyed the street, but he was out of sight. No one was in a hurry. Everything seemed normal.”

“No scent trails. Have you tried –?” Skye broke off and made a hand sign that I was sure meant something neither Sherlock nor I was supposed to know about. Wilde nodded. “Silencing mark.” He peeled down his sleeve and showed Skye something on his wrist that he didn’t let us see.

“What’s that?” I asked, since Sherlock was dodging around, collecting his own data.

Skye looked at me. “It’s Ayhan stuff. They shouldn’t know it here.” His expressive face darkened. “John, this is too dangerous for you and Sherlock now. You don’t have any of our powers; you’d be useless.”

I protested this, naturally. I was a crack shot with a gun (which I had. I could always have more silver bullets made) and Sherlock was trained in all kinds of combat. Wilde shook his head. “When you’re talking about that kind of abilities, powerless civilians like you two would just get in the way.”

“What about you?” I snapped. “You’re no less a civilian than Sherlock is. I’m not; I’m an invalided soldier.”

“Teaching history might be my day job, but I get into dangerous situations like this on a regular basis.” Finally I remembered what his molten-glass eyes reminded me of – tiger’s eyes, trained on prey unerringly. But I wasn’t going to be left behind. I was bored, and I wanted to think about anything other than my affliction. “Sorry, are you trying to _recruit_ me? Dangerous attracts me like a bee to honey.”

“That’s John for you,” Sherlock piped up, from where he was examining the pavement with his field-glass. “I said ‘dangerous’…”

“…and there I was,” I finished, smiling.

Wilde and Skye shared a look. Finally Wilde caved. “ _Fine_. I wanted help for Rollo, not death to innocent people. But if you’re so intent on dying, by all means. Be my guest. My name is Phoenix Wilde, by the way. Phoenix C. Wilde. If we’re going to be working together, you might as well know my full name.”

“John H. Watson,” I replied, shaking his hand. He cocked a smile and rubbed at the mark on his wrist, stark black against pale freckled skin.

“John!” Sherlock called. “Nothing at all.” His bright smile was out of place in the grey masses of everyday London. “Thank you, Wilde, this looks promising. Very few traces, but very interesting ones – did you get the cab number, just in case?”

“Phoenix Wilde, sir,” said Phoenix, nodding. He gave the licence number, which both Sherlock and I memorised.

Skye set his jaw. “You two, back to Baker Street. John, you’ve got a full moon night to work through. Get through it first, and then we can talk about finding RJ. Sherlock, help him. Phoenix, you’re coming with me.” He shifted.

I saluted. Sherlock nodded. Phoenix said his farewells, and nodded to Skye before the pair sped off. By this point in my life things had ceased to surprise me as much, so a man younger than me being able to keep up with a sizeable male wolf was the least weird thing I’d seen in a long, long time.


	4. Mate and Pack [Sherlock]

My mind was racing, intrigued by the lack of data at the scene and the lack of details the witness could tell us. A teacher by profession ( _chalk under fingernails, ink stains on fingers, corrective pens in breast pocket, projects and modulates voice well_ ), left-handed ( _watch on left wrist, pens closest to left side, hair slanted back and left, more calluses on left hand, chalk in the fingernails of the left_ ), cycled to work in work clothes ( _pedal marks and bicycle grease on the inside of his pants, pedal scratches on his shoes, chaffing where the helmet strap runs under his chin_ ), and typed often ( _key-flattened fingertips, sleeve pressed where it rubbed against the keyboard, slightly stooped posture from leaning over a laptop_ ).

Not a lot of money, but thrifty ( _cheap but sturdy and well-chosen clothing_ ), fastidious fashion sense ( _jacket and pants match, tie matches hair, shoes are running shoes but black like school regulation shoes for boys_ ), and used to carrying a satchel ( _hand kept straying to side where satchel was missing, signs of stress where the strap had pressed, impression where the bag had rested against his side_ ).

Had known Skye for some years, given the ease with which they silently conversed. Had known Skye back in Ayha ( _he knew what a ‘silencing mark’ was, whatever it was, and knew enough about it not to show John_ ).

This queer new occurrence had tried to, but not completely, taken my mind off John’s impending transformation. The lower the sun dipped, the more anxious we both became, until I just picked up my violin to play the songs John liked. Finally, the sky darkened to a dark blue that reminded me of John’s eyes at times… Damned romanticism!

When I looked up, John was prowling towards me. There was no other word for it.

“Human body now. Let's mate,” Wolf-John growled in a tone of voice I had never heard before. My heart rate accelerated, and I cursed my transport for making my attraction so damned _obvious_.

I swallowed around the lump suddenly lodged in my throat. “We can't,” I replied.

“You clearly want to,” he pointed out. “Your pupils are dilated. You’ve been courting me all day.” The spark in his eyes was wild, so _John_ and yet so unlike John.

I protested: “I’ve been acting normally.”

His smirk told me he knew what I was trying not to do, what I was trying to resist doing. “Serenade, Sherlock? And a new, interesting case – a chance to show off. What does that say, huh? Let’s bring the day to its natural conclusion, before my fur disgusts you.”

Had I been doing that? And for how long, exactly? Certainly the wolf seemed to think my actions romantic, though I could have told him they were _not_ meant that way. Even if they were, it wasn’t as though they would lead anywhere. John very emphatically _wasn’t gay_ ; it would be useless even as an experiment.

“It isn’t the fur that’s the problem,” I answered, shaking from my attempt to resist, _resist_ , dammit. The wolf gave me a look that told me he didn’t believe me. I amended my statement: “Although perhaps it is one of the things that makes me a bit uncomfortable about the idea, it’s not the biggest problem.”

“Why?” the wolf whined.

When I pictured the horrified look John would inevitably have when he found out, it was much easier to resist. I stopped shaking. “There’s a thing called consent. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it,” I replied, sarcastically; “but it’s actually necessary for whatever you have in mind.”

“I want to, you want to, what more consent do we need? Why are you playing so hard to get?” he huffed, annoyed.

Now this was even more idiocy than John in his stupidest, dullest moments. “You made it clear from the first night that you and John were separate entities, or at least had separate personalities. Given it’s his body you’re using, I rather think it would be considered rape if we weren’t to get his wholehearted consent, which he has _not_ given at any point in time.”

The spark blazed into a flame. “ _John?_ ” he echoed testily. “And who am I then?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. A month’s research and interviewing with other werewolves hasn’t brought me any closer to the answer. The data does agree, however, that you are firmly _two_ beings sharing one body. I don’t know exactly _what_ you are, but you’re not John.” Data was good. Data was safe.

The wolf acted so like a pissed-off John that I almost relented. “Hypothalamus. Pleased to meet you,” he snapped. “His, of course.”

I supposed it made sense. Many people had hidden desires that they never indulged for many reasons. John would be no exception. If his ‘hypothalamus’ was coming on to me so strongly, perhaps it was because, on some level, John did want me.

Still, I decided, it didn’t matter. Even if that was true, it only proved that in everyday life John didn’t like wanting me, or at least didn’t want to act on his desire. This only strengthened my resolve to resist.

The wolf must have taken my silence as tacit consent, because he was suddenly leaning over me, clasping my wrists and looking at me intently. Oh God those eyes – I derailed that train of thought, but I knew from my once-again accelerated pulse that my attraction was making itself known very flagrantly.

“The moon is almost here,” he murmured, voice rustling in my ears even as the fire in his eyes held my gaze. He’d evidently given up trying to persuade me. “Is this some sort of fantasy, Sherlock? Overtaken by the big bad wolf? No responsibility of yours?” he whispered. I could hear the smile in his tone.

The reason for my fast-beating heart quickly changed from desire to terror. He was too close, too fast, and all I could think of was John: John’s disgust, John’s _disappointment_.

That and that alone gave me the strength to do what I did then. “I won’t _ever_ forgive you if you do,” I told him, my voice strangled. _Just as John would never forgive me_. “If I’m your mate, respect me.”

Fire turned to liquid, and he studied me a little sadly before releasing me. “You really don't want it, not like that,” he acknowledged, his lips drawing in a thin line. “Alright, Sherlock. I will respect your wishes.”

I sighed with relief and – oh, recognition. John’s patience soaked through those words so thoroughly I could almost believe it was my flatmate and not his wolf talking.

“Where’s Skye?” he asked, looking around for the Pup.

“He went out,” I answered casually. “Case; friend went missing. I think he’s hunting the kidnappers, to be honest.”

“You think he caught them?” asked the wolf, much in the same manner John had asked me if I was wearing any pants when my overbearing brother picked me up and brought me to Buckingham Palace with nothing but a sheet on. I giggled at the memory. “Since they were werewolves,” I said in reply, “he’s probably acquainted them with the newspaper instead.”

He laughed. “And called them very, very bad doggies.”

In the stress-filled month we’d had, John and I hadn’t laughed together even once. Laughing with his wolf was almost the same, and I wished John wasn’t so obsessed with trying to shrink-wrap him and keep him away from everybody. He was hardly a dangerous creature.

Mid-chuckle, he yowled, overtaken by his change. In true John fashion, he had been too caught up in banter to realise that the moon didn’t stop rising because he was enjoying himself. On the other hand, I was relieved; the uncomfortable discussion was averted, at least for now. I liked that he wasn’t anxious and nerved the whole time, pacing the carpet down and emanating worry enough to fill the street.

I definitely liked this better. I made a note to try and duplicate the circumstances in the future.

When Wolf-John had fully changed, he grinned mischievously. “You’d better run tonight. I’m still not really convinced you wouldn’t be better as a wolf.”

I was entirely ready to play, and glad that he'd found the previous day pleasing enough to bear repetition. Of course, I should have been put on guard by the half-threat to render me like him (there were things deep in my brain that really shouldn't be allowed out – _ever_ ), but I decided to bet that he wouldn't. I bolted with a laugh of glee.

Just outside Baker Street, Skye was waiting, fully transformed. He let his tongue loll out in a wolf-laugh when the two of us joined him, and he yipped and bowed before Wolf-John, who nipped the top of his ear playfully.

The wolves ran with me, and it was like playing with fiercely affectionate dogs. Skye left once we exited Baker Street, and once again I led John on a merry chase throughout London, my brain thrumming with exhilaration. He snapped at my heels and nipped at my fingers, but always with a calculated mischief that closed his jaws on air rather than flesh.

I’d brought my camera phone with me, and I took some pictures of Wolf-John, who consented without a huff. I figured John would want to see what he looked like as a transformed wolf.

After a few hours of tag, we returned home, happily walking side by side. Again, I fixed supper for John. This time, he didn't stun me – in truth, he said very little beside _thank you_ – so I didn't burn anything.

Once full, he jumped on the sofa, and then looked pointedly at me. I wriggled under the feeling of uncertainty that seized me. I honestly admitted, “I don't want you to feel like I'm leading you on.”

“Sherlock,” he chuffed; “believe me when I say that I’ve accepted that you certainly won’t be the one to lead our relationship anywhere. I'm not going to molest you. Or demand what you aren't ready to give. But this is perfectly innocent, and now I _require_ a cuddle.”

Well, the point of agreeing to take care of John’s ‘danger nights’ was to see to any needs he might have, after all. I settled beside him, and soon I was hugging him, breathing against his fur. And I really shouldn't be the one drawing comfort from the act, but I was.

“That's better,” the wolf purred contentedly.

I smiled. As long as I could make him happy, yes, things were definitely better. Did he even realize the lengths to which I'd go for him, no matter his appearance? In all likelihood not entirely. And even if it was probably safer for me that he didn't, it saddened me. I squeezed him softly. Like Redbeard once, he didn't protest.


	5. Wolf Scents [John]

Waking up in Sherlock's bed the morning after my fourth and last transformation of the month wouldn't have been a problem. Waking up in Sherlock's bed after some erotic dreams that starred him (dreams, surely, _not_ memories) and with a raging erection as a consequence of them was very, very awkward and uncomfortable. Thank God that my friend was asleep still and hence unaware of my plight.

I toyed with the thought of waking him up and coming on to him, pretending to still be the wild creature of the night who’d fallen asleep here. For all of fifteen seconds. Because the man currently asleep beside me was the most observant one in Europe, if not the world, and there was no way the wolf had no tells, or that he hadn’t documented them by now. He’d see through me, and my hard on wasn’t worth moving out of Baker Street.

Frustrated at myself for even considering the project, I got up and slipped in the bathroom for a _cold_ shower. I’d spend the day as normally as I could, in as friendly a way as possible. Hopefully after he’d had his wish the wolf would doze for a bit.

I dressed and came downstairs, where Skye was waiting on the sofa, perched in his usual position, and Phoenix had taken the liberty of taking Sherlock’s chair and dozing in it.

Skye sniffed the air, and looked at Phoenix pointedly. The other man’s eyes snapped open, and he shrugged. Phoenix gave me a cursory scan, which I ignored in favour of slugging into the kitchen to flick the kettle on and prepare some toast and honey for Sherlock.

I wasn’t hungry, as usual. “Want anything, boys?” I asked.

“Cocoa, please,” Skye called. Phoenix’s strident tone carried over him: “Anything sweet, Dr. Watson?”

“John, please,” I said. “And we have honey and toast.” Sherlock had something of a sweet tooth, why not?

“Any chocolate?”

“Er… I think we’ve got a bar or two kicking around the crisper somewhere. I’ll go have a look.”

“Please and thank you.” I’ll admit that I was so used to Sherlock’s curt demands that I stopped and stared for a while at the teacher in Sherlock’s chair, hands tapping out a pattern on his knees, eyes staring ahead at the empty chair in front of him. Then I went back to work because of course, not everyone was Sherlock.

There weren’t any new clues on the Hawthorne case, but Phoenix remarked offhandedly that he’d been underground lately and heard about some information that must’ve been leaked. “I haven’t told your detective yet, Doctor,” he said; “because it’s a rather delicate business. I think the brother will come to see him about it shortly, in fact.”

“The brother?” I asked.

“Sherlock’s brother, the one in government. I’d think this falls under his jurisdiction.”

My blood ran cold. “What makes you say that?” I handed him his bar of chocolate.

He began to unwrap it, not looking at me. “Thank you. –It’s stirring up such a commotion I had to investigate it. I’ve got contacts in the underworld and they owe me a favour or two; the information isn’t state secrets, but it’s sensitive enough to need to a patch job ASAP.” He pronounced the letters separately.

“What’s the connection to RJ’s disappearance?” I queried. Sherlock would want to know this.

“Rollo and I were ferreting out the rascals. It was difficult, everything being so hush-hush, but Skye and the rest of the band hopped in on the action, and with their help we found out that the info was being passed around the Wolves’ Web in London.”

“The Wolves’ Web?” I cried. Sherlock was right about a Wolves’ Network!

“There’s one in every county in Britain, John,” Skye explained.

“That’s the reason Skye was in London when you were turned, Doctor,” Phoenix stated. “The werewolf who turned you was one of the rats. Unfortunately for them, he was a neophyte, and he killed the people who saw him, which is never a good principle when you’re a werewolf.

“Anyway, somehow the wolves got the idea we were going to report to the government, so they took Rollo, no doubt to keep me silent. What I don’t understand is why they didn’t take me directly.”

“Oh, God,” I breathed.

“And you didn’t tell me about this because you were worried I would suspect Skye himself of being part of the Web,” Sherlock finished, striding into the room, as dramatic and well-dressed as always.

“Exactly,” Phoenix agreed, unfazed, taking his first bite of chocolate.

“That’s my chair.”

“Yes. I gathered.”

“You’re sitting in it.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

“Get off it.”

“No.”

“You’re a client. Get off it.”

“Do you require the use of the chair to work effectively?” Suddenly he turned towards us and his eyes were flashing golden fire. “Listen, last night they sent me a video of Rollo being tortured. I don’t want to slow down for you to decide whether or not you want to come along. I know it’s wiser to be your ally, but I will continue to search for him, regardless of your company.” He sprang to his feet with frightening vigour. “All I want is for him to be returned to me, and I will stop at nothing, _nothing_ to achieve that!”

His vehemence had startled us all, even Sherlock, who had such a stricken look on his face that I don’t believe I’d ever seen before. He’d been confronted with many emotional clients before, but the controlled intensity of this particular teacher made even me stop and stare.

My flatmate’s face softened at the edges. “He’s more than your flatmate, isn’t he?”

“My friend.”

“More than that.”

“My best friend.”

“ _Nope_.” Sherlock popped the ‘p’ confidently.

Phoenix sighed and looked away, squaring his shoulders. “You’re right. I should have known that what I could have seen, you could also see. RJ Hawthorne is my boyfriend.” The word hung in the air between the four of us: he determined, Skye concerned, Sherlock triumphant, and I shocked.

I should’ve known. The familiar nickname ( _Rollo_ when most people called him _RJ_ ), the anxiety when he was taken (shak _ing_ when most friends would have only be shak _en_ ), and the restlessness.

My first thought was _Phoenix doesn’t look gay,_ which was of course insensitive and utterly off the mark. It didn’t matter whether he did or didn’t look gay, it mattered that he clearly _was_. Skye, however, turned to me and said, “Phoenix isn’t gay. He’s demisexual.” Damn telepaths!

Sherlock started, then looked at Phoenix with surprise. The ginger shrugged. “I’ve been told I don’t look gay. I’ve been told I don’t look demisexual either. Are you going to help me or not?”

The ensuing silence was broken by Sherlock’s “I’ll take the case.”

“And not a moment too soon!” Skye chimed in. “There’s Mycroft on the stair. Nickel, nip up the stairs now, there’s a good man. John, Sherlock, I trust I can leave you alone without having to intervene?”

I understood what he was asking at once; he was asking if I had enough control of my wolf to leave me alone with the Holmes brothers without any dire consequences. I shook my head. He shifted obligingly and we were all three in place before Mycroft opened the door; the humans in their respective chairs and Skye with his head resting in Sherlock’s lap.

Mycroft glanced at him upon entering. “That is most certainly not the dog I saw my brother leading on a merry chase around London.”

“Case isn’t over yet, brother dear,” Sherlock muttered belligerently. “And there are two dogs. The bigger one’s asleep outside.” Well, that wasn’t entirely a lie… “What do you want?”

With that, the older Holmes laid out his case. Someone had been leaking data that really shouldn’t have been leaked – not to Wikileaks, which would’ve been embarrassing enough, but to some people who could use said data to wreak havoc that Mycroft really wouldn’t want to have to clean up. “No state secrets, of course,” he concluded. “However, it is enough to need to be taken care of, as soon as possible.”

So this was what Phoenix had held back on telling us. I exchanged a look with Sherlock to the effect of _we’re doing this_ and _yes, yes of course we are, don’t be silly John_.

“We’ll take the case,” Sherlock announced pompously. “Kindly get your corpulent self out the door so I can think properly.” His fingers were rubbing at the bases of Skye’s ears absently. I almost laughed; Sherlock, neglect a pet? Never – he wasn’t the type to pass up free affection.

Phoenix bounded down the stairs, wearing his coat and a smooth black derby hat with a band of red plaid that matched his tie. The four of us leapt up and spilled downstairs, tugging on hat, coats, and scarves (in Sherlock’s case) and marching outdoors for the first round of data-gathering.

* * *

It turned out that while the wolves near Lexington were the ones to snatch Hawthorne, they weren’t the ones to either leak the information or detain him. Sherlock and Phoenix were hot on the trail at once, their combined energy burning through the pathways. Skye was their sniffer dog; with a collar around his neck he blended easily into the London scene – unnoticed, unheard, and untraceable – able to follow up clues with the barest hint of instructions.

I was their caretaker, making sure that the transports to those brains weren’t failing from lack of rest, food, or water. Phoenix was more often than not on his stomach on the rug mapping out clues with a portable whiteboard and assorted markers, Sherlock was usually haunting the hallways between his bedroom and the living room, making a web with graphics, thumbtacks, and a red ball of string.

A week whirled by, full of clues, false scents, and frustration. At the end of each day, Sherlock slumped into his mind palace, Phoenix crashed asleep on the sofa, Skye curled up near the stairs outside, and I retired to my cosy bed – all of us run ragged and with tempers dancing on a string.

More than once Phoenix and Sherlock had a row. More than once Sherlock and I had ‘a little domestic’, Mrs. Hudson would say. Speaking of our kind landlady/not-our-housekeeper, all she knew about Skye was that we were taking care of him for a case, and all she knew about Phoenix was that he was as observant and nearly as volatile as Sherlock, and she avoided questions, though she did bring up some of her excellent biscuits now and then, for which three of us always thanked her.

The two detectives (as they came to be known) talked to (or at) each other, bouncing ideas, theories, and clues off one another, although occasionally Sherlock would complain, “John, listen to this. Phoenix isn’t paying this nearly enough attention.”

Occasionally Phoenix would talk to me too, and once, he commented, head resting on his arms on the kitchen table, how alike I was to his missing boyfriend. “You’d like him,” he said; “and he’d like you. You two would force us to work together to solve impossible cases, and we’d be friends.” I didn’t tell him that I thought him a friend already. I wondered what RJ was like.

I could see why RJ would love him, though in my humble opinion Phoenix didn’t hold a candle to Sherlock. Not just physically (his hair made him look very ill sometimes) but mentally. He just didn’t exude the same air of danger, arrogance, and _Sherlock_ I’d gotten used to.

But there definitely was something weird about him.

When he was tired, we all felt it. When he was angry, we all felt it. When he was sad and frustrated and felt like kicking a wall… let’s just say Sherlock had more than the bullet holes to add to his rent share that month. Skye would always keep him in check somehow, but I had a feeling that whatever Phoenix was doing, he wasn’t doing it on purpose. He was just projecting out of sheer negligence not to.

We were beginning the second week of no answers when I stepped out to buy the detectives some food. Skye was still out, following a clue they’d given him two days before. Phoenix looked at me pulling on a clean shirt and asked, “Grocery store? I’m coming with you.”

“Why?” He’d never asked to come before.

“Running low on chocolate. As usual, I have my card. Let’s go.” He donned his hat and coat and waited for me at the foot of the steps.

Honestly, he looked terrible. While tall, dark, and brooding upstairs looked fine, all things considered, the redhead was mentally and emotionally exhausted, and he looked it. His hair stuck out in all directions, his hands were shaking from caffeine withdrawal, his cheeks had sunken in, and his eyes were dull. “You look done in, mate,” I remarked casually.

“I can’t feel him,” he replied dully.

“What do you mean, you can’t feel him?”

“Rollo and I have a bond, of sorts. He’s a telepath/telekinetic, so it was easy. He has a sort of presence in the back of my mind, and the moment he was kidnapped it started fading. I can’t feel him at all now, and it’s…” He scrubbed at his face wearily. “It’s draining me.”

“Sorry, what?” Had I heard that right? “Your boyfriend’s a telepath?”

“And a telekinetic, listen properly,” Phoenix snapped. “Yes, it means he can do what Skye does, but he’s a more powerful telepath than Skye, so his talents should be able to stretch to temporary control.”

“Sorry, are you saying your boyfriend can control minds?”

“For a short period of time. He’s also a mild telekinetic, so his talents there go up to throwing me my markers down to me in the street if I forget them. His power as a telepath means that he can form mental bonds with people he has an emotional connection to. I happen to be one.” He swore. “They’re giving him something to block off our bond. It can’t be weakened except by us, so they’re _blocking_ it.”

“Do you think he’s okay?” I ventured hesitantly. Maybe talking about RJ would let him think more clearly about the situation. –God, now I sounded like Ella.

“Of course he’s not bloody okay,” Phoenix growled. “I’m afraid to check my laptop now for fear of what I might see on there. He’s strong, but he won’t hold out forever.” He kicked the pavement in frustration. “And it’s all dead ends, dead ends, and dead ends!”

I felt a sharp pang of sympathy. If Sherlock had gone missing, I’d be at my wits’ end even with Phoenix to help me. “I don’t know what to say except… we’ll find him, if it’s the last thing we do.”

“You can’t promise that,” Phoenix said hollowly. “No one can.”

“You don’t know Sherlock then,” I replied, my voice growing more confident. “He’s on the case, and if he can’t solve it in time he will never forgive himself until he gets his own form of revenge.”

“What for?” Phoenix looked mystified.

I grinned. “For taking away his fun.” The redhead managed a wan smile. “Attaboy,” I said approvingly, clapping his shoulder. “Buck up now, we’re closer, at least.” With that, we walked in comfortable silence until we opened the doors of Tesco.

* * *

When we returned to 221B, my bag dropped to the floor in shock.

There was no Sherlock home.

“He’s been taken too,” Phoenix pronounced, in a tone that was a mix of finality, rage, sympathy, and desperation.

I saw what he meant. No signs of struggle, but the case-related web of graphics and string had been destroyed, which he wouldn’t do until he was done. “He’s been drugged, probably,” Phoenix continued, dropping his own bag and crouching to the floor. “Three, no four, attackers. One took him, one helped carry him, and the other two tore up the case web and” – his gaze flicked around the flat – “put the thumbtacks back in the box, rewound the string, and shredded the pictures.” He was right.

I growled, the wolf for once agreeing completely with my sentiments. No one took Sherlock Holmes without infuriating John Watson. “Let’s go!” I cried, dashing upstairs to get my gun, loading the other silver bullets I’d had made just in case. I clattered back downstairs just in time to see Phoenix take a pair of knives out of a coat pocket, slip one up each sleeve, sheath and all, and buckle them in place. “They’re silver, and more reusable than bullets,” he explained. “I’m also an ambidextrous fighter.”

I didn’t complain.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself to go call someone to find Sherlock, kick some criminal arse with me, when I noticed it. My sense of smell had become sharper (and that was sometimes a right pain, seeing as Skye came home having been God knows where and smelling like skips, mud, and sweat).

I’d been wondering how to find out where Sherlock was, when I realised that I just _could_.

Give Sherlock a speck of dirt and he’d give you an address. I wasn’t him, but I was a bloody dog, and the wolf in me could decode the mix of scents in the tracks to tell me vaguely where the intruders had been (hopefully, they’d been to base recently). I knelt on the floor and sniffed.

“John?”

“Shhh, I can smell the tracks.” I gave no other explanation, but it wasn’t necessary. Phoenix watched with eagerness as I applied my own version of Sherlock’s methods. I didn’t know London nearly as well as he did, but in the end, if I didn’t have an exact address, I had a general area that wasn’t too big.

“Cab?” Phoenix asked. I nodded. No chance telling anyone that I could smell people out, even if they believed me. Besides, there was no time to lose, and Phoenix and I could take on at least six people.

So there we went, Phoenix fidgeting even more than me, and even without telepathy I knew he was thinking about his boyfriend. On the way, I texted Mycroft: _There’s been – or will be – an incident with the case you asked us to investigate. You might need to pick up the baddies._ I texted him the vague area.

When we got out Sherlock’s scent, mixed with the attackers’, was heightened in the air, along with the copperish tang of blood. I growled, but beside me Phoenix gave a cry. “What is it?”

“The mental signature is distinctive,” he replied evenly, fire dancing in his eyes. “It’s Rollo.”

I sniffed again. There was nothing of importance except for Sherlock’s scent. “I can’t smell him.” I concluded that they must’ve covered up their tracks because they knew Phoenix and Skye would be following him.  

Phoenix’s feral grin told me he knew that too. “Lead the way, John.”

I broke for the warehouse, Phoenix sprinting behind me.

We busted in, the door no match for our combined strength. Phoenix’s knives flashed and my gun fired, and the two people who’d been guarding the door were down. I looked around, looking for Sherlock. My eyes landed first on a pitiful heap in the corner, crowned with what looked like a mop of mousy hair. Phoenix growled beside me at the sight. And then I found _him_.

Seeing my friend ( _mate_ , the wolf growled inside me – and for once, I heard him) chained and bleeding – they were filming what happened, the bastards – my inner beast took the lead.

Gun forgotten, I leapt into the fray, disabling the aggressors in hand-to-hand combat. For once I didn’t care about fighting fair – I cared about getting Sherlock the fuck out of there.

The attackers were fierce, being just as much werewolf as I was, but I had something to fight for besides money. Breaking their bones mercilessly and leaving them whining on the floor, I enjoyed only the hum of adrenaline and the thrum of fighting for something right. I missed my fangs acutely, wishing I could slash them open like Phoenix was likely doing.

I only realised afterwards that the growls and snarls I heard were mainly from me.

For once, my human self didn’t black out when the wolf was in control. Rather, I observed my deeds, as odd as that sounds, with a wild and grim sort of satisfaction. I wasn’t dishing out anything that these people didn't amply deserve after all.

Phoenix was fighting alongside me, and I recognised rage as fiery as mine, if on the polar opposite of the spectrum. He was like a red snake with silver fangs, dancing just out of reach and lashing out at the first opportunity. It chilled my human side’s blood to see his face, expressionless and blank, but my wolf side delighted in a packmate to stand beside.

In the immediate aftermath of the battle, the ginger and I stood in the midst of at least a dozen injured criminals, all groaning or whimpering. Then we exchanged nods and ran to our respective rescues, me to Sherlock, and him to the mousy-haired huddle in the corner that was presumably RJ.

As I was unchaining him, he told me, “You've already saved me. Let's go home.”

“I know,” I replied simply.

“You know?” he echoed, raising a puzzled brow. “It was the wolf who did it, wasn’t it?”

“The wolf, yes,” I answered, “and you're right, he was in control for quite a while. For once, though, he let me be aware of what was happening.”

“And you didn't protest his taking control?” my friend queried. Sensible question, given my mistrust of that new part of me. I decided to answer honestly, grinning slightly as I came down from the adrenaline high. “Given the occasion, I was cheering him on.”

Sherlock’s mouth kicked up at one corner. He remarked a moment later, surprised, “You didn’t contact Mycroft, did you? You came here with just Phoenix.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Didn’t really see the need to get Mycroft or Greg – that’s Lestrade, by the way – involved.”

Sherlock flicked an unreadable glance at RJ, whom Phoenix was bending over and cradling gently. “He was awake when they brought me here. He’s a telepath, like Skye, so I was able to think to him that Phoenix and I had been working on this case for the past week, and that Phoenix was close. He’s RJ Hawthorne.”

“I figured,” I whispered. “He doesn’t look in very good condition, does he?”

“Just before they started on me, they continued filming him. For Phoenix,” Sherlock clarified. “They want to be left alone, so they were sending videos to Phoenix and Mycroft to back off before they were killed.”

“They were going to send that video to Mycroft?” I asked, surprised. I understood why the vids of RJ would be sent to Phoenix (of course, they were dating) but the Holmes brothers? They rarely resisted from taking snipes at each other’s expense.

“That's why we pretend to hate each other,” Sherlock explained. “That way, people won’t think these things will work, but this time our ruse utterly failed. He won't like that.”

“ _Pretend_ to hate?” I echoed, amused. It was a very thorough guise.

“Yes, well, he'll always be a pompous, meddling, overbearing git, but I don't despise him quite as much as I look to,” my friend confessed.

“And are your brother's stalker tendencies a front, too?” I asked, half curious, half joking.

“I'm afraid that they're perfectly genuine,” Sherlock quipped with a smirk. We shared a laugh.

“By the way, we should let Mycroft know to collect the people you incapacitated, before they run away,” my friend said conversationally. I shrugged. “Texted him the address in the cab.”

“How did you know where to go? Even Phoenix isn’t that good,” Sherlock queried. “Did that have something to do with the wolf too?”

“I might be more of a wolf than we expected. I, uh, tracked the scents,” I revealed, willing myself not to blush in shame at my lupine traits showing, even if I’d been so grateful for them a short while ago.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock cried, clapping his hands. The reversal felt odd, but not mocking. I rather glowed, to be honest, as praise from the detective was rare. His eyes glittered blue in the rays from the open doors. “Then I’ll leave the kidnapping cases to you from now on, shall I?”

“Don’t joke,” I grumbled. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“How did you do it?”

I explained how I’d found him missing, and by accident discovered just how much sharper my senses were. “I didn’t find RJ’s scent, though. I think they covered it up because they knew Phoenix and Skye would be looking for him. Speaking of, better call an ambulance for him.”

“Done,” Sherlock replied, holding up my pilfered mobile. “You git,” I bit back fondly.

I gave him a hand up, and then Phoenix was in front of us, weary and sagging but unscathed. “Thank you,” he told us. “I really wish I could find a brilliant murder just to thank you for your help. I would’ve been too late without you.” He was blushing as red as his hair and looking down.

I tried not to blush again. “Well, you’re welcome. And you really do understand how Sherlock works if you know a good case is the best way to thank him,” I joked.

“Nah,” he said. “Just going on my own instincts. Rollo and I are going home now – or to hospital, which we probably need to call now – so don’t be strangers, alright?” He passed me a slip with his number and RJ’s on it, along with Skye’s. “Don’t hesitate to call even if it’s the middle of December and twelve midnight.” I understood. He was a teacher; he had hours. But he didn’t give a fuck in our case.

“Right,” I said, pocketing the slip.

“Thanks again!” He flashed us a bright smile, though I saw the worry in his eyes, and jogged over to his boyfriend, lifting the unconscious young man gently and carrying him outside, where already I could hear the wail of sirens.


	6. A Telepath and a Friend [Sherlock]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have written up to chapter 7, but because I haven't posted 6 yet, you get a twofer!
> 
> Have faith in me, guys, and hopefully I won't fail you.

John being aware of the wolf's actions, of course, required careful examination. Was it the start of further changes to him? A fluke? Or did it depend on some variable that had now happened for the first time? I pondered this the whole cab ride home, but since Skye was there to greet us when we opened the door, I had no more time to think about it, instead making a mental note to investigate.

“You found them!” he crowed, perched on the sofa. “And John, you tracked them down!” His eyes glittered with pride, like a father whose child had learned how to run the family business.

“Yes, the case isn’t over yet,” I snapped. Bastards destroyed my case web; pity, I’d have to make it again. “Could you tell Phoenix to come over here and help?”

“I don’t know if he will, to be honest,” Skye replied. “He’s stuck to RJ like glue, and RJ’s in no shape to be going anywhere for a while. They’ll probably be out of commission for a while. Sorry, you’re stuck with the sniffer dog.”

“At least you’re not Anderson,” I heard John say as I zeroed in on the copy of my case web I kept in my mind palace. It’d be too much trouble to get the photos again and make the web up again, so this would have to do.

I already knew which ones had been passing the information around, how many of the group were really werewolves, and which areas those packs of werewolves were based in. What I didn’t know was who the leak was and what the intel was about, so I couldn’t figure out what their target was. I caught up my phone to text my brother, annoyed with his tendency to withhold necessary clues.

“Sherlock?”

I hummed in acknowledgement.

“Can I patch you up? You don’t look too good.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I grumbled, unwilling to slow down for anything at all. I didn’t want to be patched up – my injuries would heal themselves anyway. “I’m fine, John.”

“Sherlock,” and this time there was a bit of a growl in it, “let me bandage those things or they’re going to get infected. Now.” Knowing what would happen if I pissed off the wolf – he was the alpha, after all, I was the beta – I obeyed.

Several bandages and painkillers later, John suggested that we go to the Hawthorne-Wilde flat instead of making them come to us, but Skye informed us that the pair were still in hospital and would probably be for quite some time, so that project was postponed until the morrow.

In the meantime, Mycroft called with the requested information, and I sent Skye and John on the lead, knowing that John would’ve forced me to stay at home even if I had volunteered to go. I talked to some of my network and got their updates, incorporating them into the stream of information that was starting to look more and more like Jim Moriarty.

He was interesting, I’d give him that.

Still, John (and the wolf) didn’t like it when he was involved, so best to leave that up to my smug sibling if I got conclusive proof that Moriarty was behind this.

His own network was much vaster than mine, extending over the globe and including people of all ethnicities and backgrounds. It was impossible for him not to have minions in London, but the questions were: Who were they, and were they part of this?

I’d figured out quite a few of the rats by the time my sniffer dogs made their report, the details of which I’d entirely expected. My hypothesis was correct, and I was on the right path. I retreated into my mind palace and visited dear old Jim, whose room was looking more and more like a prison cell the more I thought about him.

All he did was look at me and smirk, smirk, smirk. I hated being laughed at. I hated being humiliated.

And it seemed Moriarty knew that.

Nothing to learn there. I consulted John, who looked at the clues I’d amassed and pointed out that the leaks weren’t about either dramatic national events or me, which probably meant Moriarty wasn’t involved. He seemed relieved about that, which I could understand based on his earlier reactions.

When I finally ducked out of my mind palace, it was the next morning and John was urging me to take a bath and let him change my bandages. I, of course, acquiesced.

* * *

RJ Hawthorne was hard to deduce after a day spent in hospital, since the traces of his normal activities were fainter than they should’ve been. Right-handed ( _watch on left wrist, leaning slightly towards the right, used right hand to open the door, uses right hand to brace himself when he limps_ ), scatter-brained ( _post-it notes all over the flat in right-handed handwriting, a pen tucked in his collar, bits and bobs scattered around his areas of the house and not Phoenix’s_ ), and energetic but bored ( _well-worn shoes and pants, skin around the ring on his index finger agitated from twisting, lips raw from biting_ ).

Shop employee of some sort ( _keeps licking his lips and smiling a bit, good posture both sitting and standing, obviously tired but showing no signs of irritability_ ), London residency >3 years ( _accent just a bit cockney, proficient in London lingo_ ), didn’t graduate uni ( _considering his job and the fact he seems perfectly content with it, lack of graduation pictures in the flat_ ), and plays the violin ( _distinct fingertips, been playing recently going by the redness in the left fingers, violin case just beside the sofa_ ).

Not very interesting, on the whole.

John says I don’t notice physical features very well; it’s not that I don’t see them, it’s that I deem them unimportant and delete them. RJ’s hair was even mousier than Molly’s, but his eyes were the interesting bit. They were a funny crystal colour that took on the hue of whatever happened to be most prevalent. At the moment, because there were so many green things in this room, his eyes were a light jade.

“Nix went out,” RJ told us. “Investigating a kidnapping case privately; he’s very good at kidnapping cases, by the way, and not just because I, as a telepath, lend him my power.”

“You mean he’s not a telepath?” John asked, before I could put a similar question to RJ.

“Nah. He just masquerades as one because it’s less dangerous that way. People like him,” and here his face darkened, “scare a lot of average people who’ve only heard rumours and old wives’ tales about what they can do.” He chuckled. “Even I was a little afraid of Phoenix when I found out what he was.”

Not a telepath, then. His ability to pretend to be one probably stemmed from his bondmate’s telepath status. So what was he? Something that would scare normal humans…

John seemed to suggest the first thing that came to mind, probably second-guessing himself. “Is he an empath?”

“Absolutely,” RJ said.

“But why would that scare people?” I asked. “Empaths, according to what little I’ve searched on the subject, are just people who’re highly sensitive to the emotions of others.”

The mousy-haired shop boy shook his head. “Not Nix’s kind of empath. Not only can he see a person’s entire emotional state and probably how they came to be that way, he can ‘broadcast’ emotions as well. That’s the dangerous part. Empaths like Phoenix were used in the wars, as spies and saboteurs. It’s a category that’s been stigmatised over the years because of the behaviours of the empaths groomed for war. Some of them were taken in childhood and raised to be as close to sociopathic as possible.”

He used that term deliberately. Was he trying to warn me that my refusals to let myself be burdened by others’ problems as well as my own were a bad idea?

“That’s… terrible… I’m sorry.” John, compassionate John, looked vaguely spooked and sympathetic.

“Oh, don’t feel sorry for him – or me.” RJ waved away the platitude. “Here in the UK, the threat is just about non-existent, and Phoenix only pretends to be a telepath out of habit. After all, there are more of us here than even we realised. Skye was just one of them.”

I’d been meaning to ask about that. “Are you sure that’s his real name?” I queried. “He seems slow to respond whenever it’s called.”

RJ started, then laughed. “You’re quick! Yes, it’s an alias he assumes wherever he goes, just in case his brother’s spies find him.” The sandy eyes took on a bluish tint sadly. “Those two go way back, but they have a… let’s just say a complicated history; too many misunderstandings to count, a metric ton of petty arguments, and, of course, the issue of authority.”

Sounded a lot like Mycroft and me.

“No, believe me, you have it easy.” Phoenix’s paramour shook his head. “Compared to Aleksandr Nordskov, Mycroft Holmes is a minor irritation.”

“He’s the British government!” John objected.

“And Aleksandr is the Canar King,” RJ countered. John opened his mouth, probably to protest, but the meaning of RJ’s words sank in and he began a passable impression of a catfish.

As for me, I was shocked. I thought I had the most annoying brother in the world. “As you see, Sherlock, you’re not the only one with a brother you’d love to kill sometimes. Skye, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to prove his brother wrong. He wants to succeed, if only to rub it in his brother’s face.”

That sounded more like me.

We passed a bit more time with useless small talk before RJ cut to the chase at last. “You’re here about the case, aren’t you?” He was so sure it wasn’t a question, only a strangely worded statement.

“Yeah,” John replied for me, even as I took in all the information I could from the Hawthorne-Wilde flat and deleted the boring, ordinary bits. “Would you know anything that could help, at this point/ I mean, you being Phoenix’s, er, bondmate…”

“You’re lucky today,” RJ remarked darkly. “Reyalon is just the person to ask. In fact, here he is.”

In burst a youngish man who looked older than both Phoenix and Skye. The only thing I could see before unconsciousness flooded my body like a drug was the surprise and horror in indigo eyes.


	7. A King... and a Brother [John]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've said, this is the last chapter I've written for a while. Thank you again to NovaNara for this amazing story!
> 
> Fingers crossed, I can finish this fic in November.

I watched in shock as the young man snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock’s eyes and the detective went out like a light. I didn’t even have time to think _I’ll be next_ before everything went dark. The next thing I knew I was opening my eyes to a ruffled detective and a slightly peeved RJ. “– can’t just do that, Reyalon,” he was saying.

The indigo-eyed young man had looked to be about twenty-six when I first saw him, but now that I could see the faint, very thin silver streak at his temple I’d put him at thirty, thirty-five, maybe. His platinum blond hair hid the silver very well, sweeping low over the distinct indigo eyes. His skin was a bit red, like he was healing from a sunburn.

He shifted uncomfortably, nodding apologetically to me and Sherlock when he saw we were paying attention. “I panicked. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you panicked alright,” Phoenix chimed in, shutting the door behind him and setting down his bag and water bottle. “I could feel it all the way from the ground floor. You’re still panicking. What the hell, Reyalon? You don’t just conk out other people’s guests.”

It was only when I heard the name _Reyalon_ that I realized something: they weren’t speaking English.

The name was spoken with a trill to its R that sounded slightly Afro-Asian, jolting me to the epiphany that they were conversing in an entirely different language, the words of which RJ was translating and putting into my mind in the appropriate voices. _Yeah, this language is called Canar,_ RJ whispered to me. _It’s Reyalon and Skye’s native language. If you haven’t noticed, they love swearing in it._

It did sound like the language Skye used when he burst into an angry stream-of-consciousness rant.

“So, what’s the news?”

“What were you thinking?” Reyalon seethed, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. “I thought you at least cased the joint before you attacked. Maximilien isn’t at home anymore, I can’t protect him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want your protection,” Phoenix said mildly. “He’s twenty-two, Reyalon, he’s an adult both in Canarim and in England. He doesn’t need your help.” His voice turned cold. “I don’t think he wants it, either.”

Reyalon bit his lip. Then he turned to me. “Do you know my brother?” he asked in English.

“Um, no.” _You do,_ RJ said. _This is Skye’s brother. This is Aleksandr Nordskov, also known as Northwood. Skye’s full name is Maximilien Skyler Nordskov. Don’t tell him I said that._ “Fine, yes. I do. Skye, right?” My heart was thumping in my throat as the indigo eyes dissected me. It was like being under Mycroft’s scrutiny, only worse. With Mycroft I knew what I could get away with; I’d just met Reyalon after having put his brother in danger. And if Reyalon was anything like Mycroft, God help Sherlock and me.

“Skye, yes.” Reyalon leaned back in his chair and studied me again. “Did you know he’s a prince?”

I was still shell-shocked, so I had no problem pretending to be surprised. “Er, no.”

“Although he was declared dead over ten years ago, he still holds the title. Because he’s the prince, a werewolf, and my brother, there are many people who would love to get their hands on him,” the young king stated emotionlessly.

“Declared dead? Why?” I interrupted, feeling a bit bad for prying.

“In our country, werewolves are seen as a threat,” explained the man with indigo eyes. “When he was nine years old, he was discovered to be a werewolf. When he was twelve, two guards framed him for a murder he most certainly hadn't committed. He… how would you put it… flipped out.” For something that happened years ago, his voice was still that curious kind of flat some people get when they’re trying not to cry. “He killed them on the spot. I had no choice; I ordered his execution.”

I tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock looked both mildly impressed and a bit scared, and objected. “He was a kid! Didn’t he have a guardian who could take responsibility? Couldn’t he have just been put on probation or something? Don’t you have juvie where you live?”

He held up his hand. I silenced. “I was his only guardian. I was just twenty-four at the time – and yes, there’s a twelve-year age gap between me and my brother – and I had just been crowned. My authority was still weak. I couldn’t have taken responsibility; the country would have fallen apart. So I…” He buried his face in his hands.

Phoenix continued his account. “Reyalon disowned his brother, imprisoned him, and sentenced him to death. The night before he was meant to die, he disappeared. Reyalon declared him dead.”

The young king met my eyes, and the only thing I saw there that mattered was that he would go to any lengths to keep his brother alive and happy. It was… an odd, Mycroftian kind of love. “Keep him safe.”

RJ cleared his throat. “You were saying?”

Sherlock chose that exact moment to interrupt. “It’s about the leak, isn’t it? You’ve got it written all over you.”

Reyalon glanced at him. “Don’t give me that attitude, boy. Holmes might have me impressed but as far as I know you’re just Mycroft Holmes’s baby brother and the person who endangered Maximilien. Give me a better first impression of you or I’m not saying anything as long as you’re in this room.”

I wish I had the words to describe how absolutely floored my detective looked. His brow twitched with irritation, and he sat up straighter. Only the fact that his pride would suffer a blow was the only thing keeping me from snickering at his prickliness. Sherlock might act all high-and-mighty, but he still wanted respect.

“The leak is connected with Ayhan werewolves who were caught and have no desire to keep their secret,” Reyalon began. RJ cursed, and Phoenix, who’d been grading homework, sat up sharply. Sherlock leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his tented hands in front of his face.

“Not just Canar werewolves, Savran and Anagorian ones as well,” Reyalon confirmed. “As far as I know they are former Outlanders who found their way to England. The fix here is that someone is paying them as magical mercenaries, and they don’t care. I can’t control them because I don’t have any authority, and even my magic can only go so far.”

Sherlock sprang up in frustration. “I don’t know why I expected you to be serious, Nordskov. Stop spinning me fairy tales and give me facts. Cold, hard facts that I can work with.”

The silence was telling. I thought the young king would strangle Sherlock with his bare hands. That is, until he threw back his head and laughed. “You think I’m lying? What’s this then?” He clapped his hands and darkness flooded the room.

I can’t describe that darkness. It was like a blanket on your senses, the negative of sensation. I couldn’t touch or hear or see or feel or smell. I was just the thought of John Watson, existing in a non-place. _Oh my God, Sherlock._ Sherlock relied heavily on his senses, and when he lost the use of even one of them he was lost too. I began feeling wildly around for him – or at least I hoped that was what I was doing, because I couldn’t feel myself.

The prick of tingling erupted all over the body I could suddenly feel, and sensation slammed into me like a brick wall. RJ was sprawled on the couch, his pupils blown, and his boyfriend looked like he was ready to pick a fight, clenching his pen in one hand so hard his knuckles burned white. Sherlock… Sherlock was pale, stumbling on his long legs like a newborn fawn. I staggered over to him and held on to his shoulders, calming him down.

“What the hell?” I growled at the younger man, too incoherent with rage to say anything else. _He attacked Sherlock,_ the wolf snarled, and once again I completely agreed. I bared my teeth and a growl erupted from my throat.

Reyalon glanced at RJ and a Phoenix whose eyes were blazing with anger. “Did I do something bad?”

“Driven Sherlock to the edge of a panic attack for one,” Phoenix replied mildly. “My God, Reyalon, look at him!”

With a sharp look at Sherlock, Reyalon stood up and said in Canar, “I’ll reach you with the details later. I need to go.” He gave me one last guilty glance and dashed out the door. RJ chuckled. “He means sorry. And I’m sorry about that, Sherlock, John. I just thought you’d like the info first-hand.”

“No, no, that’s alright,” I said, though it really wasn’t. I could feel Sherlock trembling.

“And there’s that,” RJ said. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’ll explain. Phoenix and I have powers that lie mostly in the invisible plane of existence; that’s why it’s so easy to pass off as normal. Reyalon, on the other hand, might be slightly telepathic, but his main power is noctokinesis.”

“And that would be?” I snapped.

Phoenix closed his eyes and Sherlock stopped shuddering. “The power to manipulate darkness.”

“I’m taking Sherlock home,” I said. This wasn’t their fault and never had been. It was Reyalon’s, and even he hadn’t known how highly Sherlock prized the evidence of his eyes, ears, nose, and whatever other senses I couldn’t name.

RJ nodded. “We’ll take you.”

“You’re not well,” I protested. “Your arm’s still healing, and either way you can’t walk on that leg –”

“Damn my leg!” he shouted. “I’m going to get you two home safe if it’s the last fucking thing I do.” Phoenix nodded and capped his pen, tucking it into his pocket.

We didn’t talk much on the way home, but RJ and Phoenix did try to lighten the mood by showing us pictures of me as a werewolf. Not that that helped very much, but Sherlock assured me that all I’d done was pose a bit and snap playfully. My wolf was the least camera-shy animal I’d ever seen, but when I saw the pictures I was reminded of the amorous dreams that Sherlock had awakened in me the other day.

The detective _had_ asked me about the ‘friends-with-benefits because the wolf is horny’ thing, and of course I’d given my permission ( _why_ is too complicated to go into), but it was still uncomfortable to think of those dreams as a result.

Oh God, they _were_ memories, weren’t they? Oh God, the wolf had shagged Sherlock. Gorgeous, untouchable Sherlock.

And then I remembered there were telepaths in the car.

RJ snickered and did a wolf-whistle that simultaneously made my wolf growl out of jealousy and heated up my cooled embarrassment all over again. Phoenix smirked. _Don’t worry, we won’t tell,_ they promised. Their mental laughter was as real and as embarrassing as physical laughter would be.


	8. Even If It's Just the Chemicals [Sherlock]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know, I'm late. But I couldn't resist, and I need your input in order to advance this.

It seemed that the best thing to do for this case was to put it on the back burner for the moment, letting RJ and Phoenix handle it as much as possible until any further developments presented themselves. However, that meant that I would now be able to address the issue of John knowing and consenting to the wolf’s actions the day they rescued me. “John,” I said idly, some days after the incident. “Do you feel any more… wolfish, lately?”

The heartfelt “No, and God, I hope I'm not going to be – I'd say that I'm more than enough wolf, don't you?” I got in reply shot down my first hypothesis. There was no possible way it could happen without John realising it unless the rules of lycanthropy were much more skewed than we knew, and Skye had informed me that in Ayha, werewolves were usually a balance of power between wolf and human. _“Neither should be more powerful than the other_ ,” he’d explained. “ _It’s like a relationship – it should be equal._ ”

I didn’t think that British lycanthropy could be that different, especially when Skye told me that Ayhan lycanthropy was a sort of amalgamation of all the types in the world. He knew what a British werewolf was because he’d seen one before. “ _In the British District, predictably_ ,” he’d said.

Yes, I spent an inordinate amount of time with Skye talking about lycanthropy. It seems to be part of my day now. After all, he _was_ the expert, and I was his superior.

But something kept pecking at my brain, until just after that question-and-answer portion, when I was reclining on the sofa and thinking. Things I’d heard both Skye and John say began to melt together in my mind, the puzzle pieces skittering over the picture in my head before snapping into place.

_“Hypothalamus, pleased to meet you. His, of course.”_

_“In Ayha, werewolves revert to their basest and most primal senses.”_

_“Given the occasion, I was cheering him on.”_

_“It’s an instinct.”_

_That’s it!_ I jumped to my feet, the epiphany shining bright in my mind. John’s wolf was a manifestation of his instincts and his desires. The wolf blocked him out when it was inconvenient to have to deal with John’s protests or discomfort. However, when even the conscious mind agreed wholeheartedly with the proceedings, the subconscious saw no reason to exclude it entirely from events.

Plausible enough, I decided, supported by all the known data, and verifiable enough through experimentation.

Although there was another question I needed to ask, left imprinted by Skye’s lurid descriptions of his own first shifts after he figured out what he was and connected it to lycanthropy. “ _It was horrible, blacking out for one whole night when I’d never done it before,_ ” he’d told me. “ _Even when I was conscious, I felt trapped. The most painful thing a child like me could experience was being walled off in my own brain while my body did something I would only recall later as if I’d been dreaming_.”

“If you could be conscious of the wolf’s actions all the time, would you want to do it?” I asked then. “When you were aware of the wolf’s actions, was it better than being unaware of them?”

“Well, at least I knew that I didn't hurt anyone that didn't amply deserve it when I was. Yes, I would say that being aware even when not in control is something I'd like on a regular basis,” he replied, flicking on the kettle and leaning out of the kitchen so that I could hear him.

Now another problem presented itself – what actions of the wolf would John approve of? He didn’t trust the wolf, and he was still afraid of it. Saving me was one proven situation, but my pride protested at that option. Even when it was John, looking sexy as hell (no, no, don’t dwell on that, you stupid boy), I didn’t like being rescued so much.

There was no way I would be able to do this without revealing the existence of the experiment – John’s fear of the wolf was too deep-running. I needed to overcome it in order to get the untainted facts I wanted.

“If you want to know what he’s doing, why don’t you just trust that he _knows_ what he’s doing?” I blurted in pure frustration to no one in particular. Why couldn’t John see that the wolf wasn’t something to be afraid of at all?

It seemed I’d got his attention, though, since he poked himself out of the kitchen rebelliously. “How can I trust it, Sherlock, it's –”

“First of all, the wolf isn’t a _thing;_ you could start by giving him the proper pronoun at least,” I snapped, cutting him off. I began to pace agitatedly, veering around the sleeping Skye curled up on the rug, the ends of the threads trying to come together in my brain. I could feel them itching to be made into the right idea, but it kept slipping away from me no matter how hard I tried. “He’s _you_ , John. He didn’t just appear out of thin air; his personality had to come from somewhere. _That_ came from _your_ subconscious!” I tapped his forehead in frustration. “Stop worrying that he’s going to rip someone’s throat out without reason. You’d never do that, so why would he?”

“Sherlock it – oh fine, _he –_ has attacked you!” John exclaimed, throwing out his hands. “Why on earth are you asking me to trust a creature that would attack _you_ , let alone other people, without reason?

“You weren’t attacking me,” I replied exasperatedly, gesticulating wildly. “You were _subduing_ me. You know it, I know it, Skye knows it, stop using it as an excuse to bundle him away like a criminal! He’s no more a criminal than you, John!”

“ _Why do you keep saying ‘you’, Sherlock?_ ” John yelled. “That – that _thing_ – is not me!”

Skye popped up from the rug with a snort, blinked once, assessed the situation, and fell back asleep. The Pup had had quite a tiring night, trotting all over London with me on low energy. I barely registered this as I abruptly stopped pacing, seething with irritation. “Who else would he be, then?” I asked, in that ‘oh-that’s-so-obvious’ tone I knew annoyed him. I was in a petty mood.

“The devil, for all I know!” John huffed.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, John,” I scolded sharply, beginning to pace again.

“Because werewolves existing makes such perfect sense but the devil is an impossibility, is he/” he snorted, just as much at his wits’ end as I was.

I whirled, rolling my eyes. “Because if that hypothesis is correct, the devil is a much maligned, exceedingly pleasant fellow.”

“Right. I’d forgotten how _very much_ you like the bloody wolf,” John muttered bitterly.

I ignored the heat in my cheeks. “That is _not_ what we’re discussing. I have a working hypothesis to make you more aware of his doings, which you yourself indicated to be desirable to you. All I’m asking is that you stop being so _terrified_ of yourself. Agree with him sometimes, or at least try. This could fail for all I know, but the only way to disprove a hypothesis is to test it.”

My voice softened. “There’s nothing in you that warrants this fear and hatred, truly. I’m not just saying that because of my… dalliances with him. If that’s what you think. I am simply doing my best to analyse the situation and reach a conclusion desirable to all involved.” Somewhere during that speech I’d slipped from embarrassed lover to scrutinising scientist.

John took a deep breath and rested his forearms on the counter. “Sherlock, I appreciate all this, and I know your best is pretty much the absolute possible best, but you have to understand… trusting it – him… is going to be really, really _difficult._ ” He faltered on the last word.

“I know. All I’m asking is that you try. Every now and then, when you can. For science, John!” I cajoled enthusiastically, having successfully summoned the detachment necessary to talk about it without blushing.

He giggled then, in spite of himself. “Is that what this is? _Sherlock Holmes: on the scientific approach to bloody mythical creatures. A monograph_.”

“That’s not a bad title,” I replied, going along with relief. “If our situations were reversed, you’d have published ‘My flatmate is a werewolf’ or something equally inane and sensational.” A smile danced on my lips.

“I wouldn’t have,” John assured me, with heartfelt conviction.

“Why not? It’s not as though anyone would have believed you.” I shrugged. “Another supernatural nutter.”

“You’re not suggesting I go public, are you?” John queried, concerned.

“No, that’s our little secret.” I gave him a smirk and felt a rush of gratification when he returned it, leaning back off the counter at last. But in all honesty, the last thing I wanted were occult fangirls throwing themselves at John. Even uncomfortable about the wolf as he was, he'd have obviously ended accepting their offers – and he wouldn't need me in that capacity anymore, no matter what the wolf said.

I followed him back to the living room; we sat down in our respective chairs. I tried my best to sound less eager than I felt. “My only request is that you trust yourself and him. Agree with him, sometimes. If not for science, do it for me.” My grin was weaker now. “He won’t shut you out. I’m counting on that.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, relenting at last. “For you. You’ve done so much for me.” _John, that was nothing._ “Honestly, though, the idea of agreeing with the beast scares me to death.”

Technically, he already had, with no qualms at that, but it seemed a bit not good to bring that up now. Instead, I replied, “I don’t think you’ll regret it. He’s really not bad, John. Even with your strict moral principles, I believe you’ll find agreeing to his adventures acceptable. And you wouldn’t have these annoying blackouts anymore.”

“Or I could prove your theory wrong,” he bit back.

“Or you could do that, yes,” I agreed easily. Somehow I didn’t think that would happen.

* * *

Day 2 of the experiment, my infuriating brother came in with another national-security case for me, while Skye was out. Of course, he tried to wrap it up with a little bit of falsehood, probably just to keep me on my toes, but the minute he involved John (with the intention of making him persuade me), the wolf jumped to the fore. “You smell like lies, Mycroft,” he growled. “My priority is Sherlock’s safety, and if you can’t be honest with us then you’d better get out.”

Ooh. Unexpected development, right there, blipping away at me. “Bravo, John.” I flashed him a smile. “I didn’t expect you to catch that.” Lie detector? Hm. That could potentially be useful, to both me and John. Hopefully that ability made him think better of his other half.

John allowed himself to be swept up in the thrill of the chase again, and Skye was _very_ enthusiastic about being included on cases. He accompanied us as a sniffer dog when he knew he wouldn’t be allowed, and followed us as a human when he would be. John had avoided cases and NSY crime scenes, possibly in fear of what would happen were the wolf to be brought into direct contact with Donovan.

But after a whole afternoon of Skye’s wheedling, our cab - without Skye, might I add - pulled up to the newest crime scene Lestrade had called me to, and lo and behold there was Sergeant Donovan.

Interesting. Her affair with Anderson was off for the moment, going by the way she kept pointedly not looking at him and the tightly defensive way she crossed her arms. Maybe her moral code had won out on this argument.

“Finally shown up, Freak?” she asked passive-aggressively. Contrary to her belief, I _was_ rather sensitive to other people and situations, so I decided to let it slide.

John and the wolf, however, did _not._ “Okay, that’s enough,” he snapped. “Stop it.” Hm. The wolf.

She halted in her steps and turned to look at him with surprise and annoyance. “‘Stop it’? What’s your problem today?”

Oh dear. This wasn’t how I pictured this happening. John, of course, didn’t see the telltale signs of Donovan’s emotional vulnerability. I made a note to tell the wolf when the absolute _worst_ time was to pick a fight – like this time. “Your behaviour is unprofessional, childish, and frankly very tiring.”

“John,” I called, half-warning and half-placating.

“I know you can fight your own battles but – she shouldn't be enemy. She should be _pack_. It's annoying!” the wolf said petulantly, turning to me and totally unaware of the alarm bells that were now ringing in my head. He’d used wolf terminology, out of context, in front of Sally Donovan – that was never going to be good in the first place, and when she was like this…

I had just determined to salvage the situation by any means necessary when she caught on and demanded, “Pack?” she echoed, shifting a suspicious glance at him. “The Freak's?” Her gaze now landed accusingly on me. “What did you do, drug him?”

Excuse number four. Hm. “Might have, but I thought it would’ve worn off by now,” I lied breezily, talking over John’s “He didn’t”.

“You know the rules,” she said gleefully. “No junkies at crime scenes.”

At this point I lost my temper. “I’m clean,” I retorted; “thank you for offering to _babysit_ , Sally.” John bristled under my hand at the word, and I risked a look at him. Still wolfish.

Donovan’s face scrunched up. “Oh, go on, both of you. He’s useless anyway.”

I didn’t know which one of us she meant, but I prickled all the same, and I heard John’s growl as I ushered him further inside, to Lestrade and to friendly territory. When I next took a look at him, he was just Human-John now, and he asked me softly, “Why?”

“It was simpler,” I replied, shrugging. She’d have had him – or both of us – sectioned if we’d stopped to explain his sudden lack of polite self-control and his peculiar word choice.

When we got home from that particular case (it wasn’t burglars, it was the house-owner’s lover – obvious) Skye was delighted. “Oh, that’s good,” he enthused.

“It’s not too bad,” John admitted. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but, well… it could be manageable.”

Skye nodded. In a small mental whisper he added to me that Ayhan werewolves often felt the same way – that _ideal_ was always going to be never having been born a werewolf, _ideal_ was always going to be _human_. It made me wonder if Skye had ever felt that way, still felt that way.

 _Sometimes,_ he admitted. _It’s very hard to get rid of these thoughts. You can’t kill an idea, Sherlock. It’ll always be there. It’s as much a part of me as my lycanthropy is._

It made me strangely sad.

* * *

After Day 14 of the experiment had passed with no other data from John, I began to lose faith in my hypothesis. I had to hope that for whatever reason he was just hiding the success from me, not failure or even failure to try. So I admit that I was not a little surprised when one morning, over tea, the wolf suddenly came to the forefront only to remind me, “Wolves mate for life, you know.”

“I am well aware of that,” I replied delicately, hiding my eyes in my cup of tea. It was a bittersweet notion. Skye, who’d been curled up discreetly near the fireplace, smirked at me and trotted out. Damnable dog.

“I don’t think you are, not really,” he snipped. “Once the novelty of this wears off – if you meet someone brilliant, like Irene was – I think you’d try to move on. I wouldn’t let you.” The blue fire in his eyes was distinctly not John. John’s eyes had never burned with such possessive need.

“ _For the love of God_ , I’ve never wanted Irene Adler!” I chuffed, almost wolfish myself. “You’re safe from anyone like her; no need to bristle.” I shot him an exasperated Look.

“I’m serious, Sherlock,” he warned.

“I _am_ serious,” I insisted, meeting his eyes with mine. “I am yours. If wolves mate for life, their partners do too.”

“Why?” he asked. I would call the expression on his face worry or concern, but I’d never shown myself to be particularly good at interpreting human expressions at all. But he was still focused on the matter and still evidently serious about it.

All I did was raise an eyebrow at him over my tea.

“Why are you mine, when you were never his before? We’re not all that different, and you’ve rejected him – hell, you rejected him before you even got to know him! At Angelo’s, you shot him down like lightning. What happens when you finally understand that I’m not some exotic being, but _him_ , like I’ve been repeating from the start?”

I blinked at the barrage of questions. It was like the flood of insecurity had suddenly been undammed and rushed out like the Red Sea (where was that again? Oh yes, the Bible – interesting). Then I replaced my cup, leaned forward, and began to explain with brutal honesty:

“At Angelo’s I barely knew him. I’d only just met him, so there was no way for me to know how important he was going to become to my emotional enlightenment. A handsome face was no guarantee of his character, and at the moment I was still a bit indecisive about him. Devastatingly attractive, yes, but not critically vital yet.”

“Devastatingly?” the wolf echoed, smug amusement returning.

“Yes,” I grouched. It was undeniable anyhow. “The point is that I’m not going to suddenly dump you because you’re John. In fact, the only reason I allowed this arrangement of ours at all is _because you’re John_.”

“Because you care for your friend?” the creature asked softly, still unsatisfied.

The words stuck in my throat even as my damnable pounding heart threatened to push them out for me. I quickly weighed the risks and benefits – John would likely never know about this conversation and the wolf would remain happy – and I gulped down some tea. “It – it’s not just that,” I confessed, choking on the lump of feelings in my chest.

“Well, what is it then?” the wolf pressed testily.

“I…” I took a breath to clear my lungs. Did confessions always feel like a weight all over your torso? “I was in love with him before you ever showed up, even the littlest bit.”

_Please don’t mock me. Please don’t mock me. Please don’t tell John. Please accept it. Please._

“Were you, now?”

My head shot up and bitterness and fear exploded into my mouth. The blue fire was gone and it was John – oh no, _John_ – who’d asked that question, who knelt in front of me now.

_Please. Please._

“Were you, Sherlock?”

Could I deny it? I had to, if I didn’t want an empty flat, but again the words glued my throat shut. God, no wonder ordinary people were such idiots, with all this sentiment choking down and clouding their higher functions. But this was John, who was also capable of such intoxicating thrall that the pain was its own reward and the sweet bits were treasure. I looked him in the eye knowing that this was probably one of the worst things I’d ever done, and breathed, “Yes.”

“How long?” came the next question.

 _Oh Lord, what does it matter?_ I wanted to scream. Would the judgement be more severe the longer the crime had gone on? “Since at least the pool,” I replied dutifully, staring him straight in the eye and daring him to take the heart I offered so reluctantly and smash it to pieces in front of me.

“That was months ago, a year even,” John realised. A different kind of blue fire kindled in his eyes now. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything, Sherlock?”

“Why do you think?” I retorted acidly. “Why does stupid unrequited pining ever happen? Go on, John. You’re not a complete idiot. You’ve read all those romantic, hellishly sentimental novels, you know why I wouldn’t tell you.” I couldn’t say it, not anymore. I had said enough. My body would physically allow me to say no more. He paced in front of me, thinking.

I saw the moment he realised it completely. “I can teach you to delete things,” I said calmly, tamping down my rioting emotions. “You can do that.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He whirled around with a perplexed look. “Why would I want to?”

I curled up sulkily; that, apparently, was all the answer he needed. He sighed. “I don’t want to.” His tone turned affectionate and lightly exasperated. “See, this is what happens when you assume things. You get it all wrong.”

_Please. Please. Please. Even if he’s disgusted by this whole thing let John stay here. Let me keep John._

“Hey, hey now.” He touched my shoulder so I faced him, offering me the warmest, fondest smile I knew (43). His hand was rubbing circles into my tense muscle. “Look at me properly, Sherlock.” I obeyed reluctantly and sullenly, raising my eyes to his. “I love you, you great git. I love you too.”

Now this, this was going too far. “Don’t _mock me,_ John.” My voice rose in indignation even as hot tears prickled at my lashes: tears of a wounded pride and a wounded heart. “Not gay, remember?”

“Well, that’s because I’m not,” he replied easily. “I’m very firmly bisexual, thank you, and no, Sherlock, bi isn’t a variation of gay, it’s an entirely different sexuality. Those girls… I’m really sorry for them and about them. I was trying to find out if being in love with two people at the same time was possible. Turns out, it’s not, at least for me.” His lips twitched. “They always found out, so I thought you knew too.”

“The grit in the lens,” I lamented, even as I buried my nose in John’s shoulder and let it go. His reassuring touch and voice told me he wasn’t going anywhere, at least for now, and I clung to him like a crab (though not nearly as painfully, I can assure you!). “I didn’t want –”

“I know, I know,” he murmured. “I know, love. I didn’t want to lose you either. The only way you could lose me is by sending me away yourself, and even then I think the wolf would have some protestations.”

His smile coaxed one out of me. “I’ve been called a madman so many times even I can’t keep count, and I know I’m a bit crazy, but even I’m not that self-destructive.” Maybe to complete the moment, maybe just because I wanted to say it fearlessly, I said, “I love you, John.”

“You know, you say that, but you’re not acting like it right now.” John’s grin was positively outrageous, his tone gently teasing. Oh, God, I was almost high on that _smile_ alone. I leaned up into his kiss, ardent and intoxicating, but all too soon a spike of primal terror struck me and I bolted back. _It’s not real, why would it be real?_ No doubt John had figured out why I flinched, but he chose to ignore it.

“You tease,” he laughed quietly. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages.” With that, he kissed me again, and if I knew it was the chemicals in my brain talking it only enhanced the experience because it was _John_ and no one else who charmed that mix of chemicals out of me.

Even if it was just the chemicals, it was John, and I didn’t really care anymore how I loved him. It was enough that we knew I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how do you think I can incorporate TRF into the denouement? How involved do you guys think the SRP (Skye, RJ, and Phoenix) trio should be in this one?


	9. Crescendo [John]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have until Chapter 10 for you guys today! Yay! It's crescendoing indeed...

** Luckiest man alive **

That’d be me, by the way. Mostly because I get to say I’m in love with the most infuriating, ridiculous, childish, and absolutely _brilliant_ person I know, and the rest of it is because he loves me back. Oh, and the person in question is Sherlock and he’s reading this over my shoulder, since we’ve just been out on a date to Angelo’s (and yes, I asked for a candle this time). So we’re on cloud nine with no intention of coming back to Earth, ever.

In case you were wondering, Sherlock is grinning madly while I type this.

I know, I know, half of you saw this coming and the other half of you thought this was already happening – which it couldn’t, really, because Sherlock is right and I’m a really, really terrible liar; I couldn’t have been doing this the whole time and kept it to myself without bursting.

Anyhow, I could wax lyrical about this whole thing, but you seriously don’t want to read my attempts. Even Molly thinks they’re a bit silly, and this is _Molly_ we’re talking about (sorry, Molly, you’re a dear and we adore you but you’re so romantic it’s just the tiniest bit cavity-inducing).

Just a bit of advice: **flirting with either of us is very unwelcome** (bold and underlined at Sherlock’s insistence), so kindly avoid it in the near future, should you happen to see us about.

Trust me, you don’t want to know what’d come of it.

And this is… a bit of a shout-out to some friends of ours who may or may not have seen this coming. Well, if any of them happen to be reading my blog, which is a bit of a shot in the dark because I don’t know if they even know I have a blog. Hey, you three, you know who you are. Thanks for taking the case so this could happen.

* * *

Shortly after I posted the above, my phone received some texts from Phoenix:

John, really. [9:49 PM]  
I’m an *empath*. [9:49 PM]  
There’s no way I couldn’t have seen this coming. It was sickening just to be in the same room as you two sometimes. [9:50 PM]   
Well, I’ve been holding myself back. [9:50 PM]  
Brace yourselves, guys. Johnlock is going down. [9:51 PM]

What the hell is Johnlock? [9:51 PM]

That’s the pair of you, by the way. [9:52 PM]  
Ship name. [9:52 PM]  
God you really are old. [9:52 PM]

I laughed and showed it to Sher, who snorted and texted back: _Says the high-school teacher_. I laughed again.

A few days after that announcement, I found Skye rooting around in the kitchen for something and realised he hadn’t been in the flat since the morning he’d run out just before the big argument-slash-confession. He looked at me and stood up. “I didn’t really think you two were a thing at first,” he began. “I really did think you guys were just best friends.”

“When did you change your mind?” I asked teasingly, smirking as I flicked the kettle on and put some toast in for Sherlock.

“It was when RJ’s case came up and Phoenix and I lived here for a bit,” he answered. “All your little mannerisms that said you were so comfortable with each other were everything an alpha pair’s should be. I knew then that your wolf had chosen Sherlock as his mate.” He raked back his hair. “You’ve met my brother.”

I started, then I remembered. “Well, yeah,” I said sheepishly. “It wasn’t intentional, in case you were –”

“Oh come now, John,” he chuffed. “Don’t be stupid. That’s not the problem here.” I looked at him as he shifted from foot to foot. “The problem is: that man you met could _not_ have been my brother.”

“Why?” I asked dumbly. My wolf read his body language easily, and it said very, very uneasy. Skye was _never_ that uneasy.

“Because King Aleksandr Reyalon Nordskov is dead,” he bit out. “He died two years ago.”

* * *

I stared at him. All the shock of the last two weeks was _not_ going to be good for my blood pressure a decade from now. “ _What?_ ”

“He’s dead,” Skye stated. “I saw him die in front of me. There was no way he could’ve survived that – his head was literally blown to pieces. There’s something fishy going on and I want to know what it is. Find that man you met and bring him to me. The moment I see him I’ll know.”

I thought about it for a moment. “How? If this guy really is impersonating your brother, wouldn’t he copy everything about him? Birthmarks, sunspots, everything?”

The blond werewolf rolled his eyes. “You mundanes and your obsession with the physical. I’m not going to recognise him by _appearance_ ,” he explained, in a way that reminded me of ‘Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing – _Rachel is not a name_.’ “Each living person has a unique mental signature – like a fingerprint. That’s what I’ll be looking for.”

My spirits dampened. Skye’s icy blue eyes looked a bit misty, and I wondered if perhaps his relationship with his brother was a bit more complicated than anyone had let on. In a way, I guess our situations were similar; we loved our siblings but couldn’t reach them anymore. Our jagged edges scraped too much.

I put a hand on his shoulder, and he shook it off, giving me a glare that meant that even if he wasn’t the alpha, he wouldn’t let me give him consolation he didn’t want.

“Are we telling them?” I asked.

“I need all the help I can get,” he said.

* * *

It turned out we didn’t have to go looking for whoever was impersonating Aleksander Nordskov, as when Sherlock and I came down, he was already there. His white-blond hair shafted sunlight from the client’s chair, and though his back was turned to us I could tell he was incredibly tense. Skye rolled in behind us; as if he could sense it, the man stood up and made an about-face.

His eyes looked more purple than indigo, the sunrays striking the blood vessels behind his irises. They locked on Skye, who began what seemed to be a very intense staring contest.

I watched Skye’s face, waiting for the grim expression to wash over it, but instead his glacial-blue eyes widened, and he froze. Just like _snap_ – a statue. I suspected that if Sher hadn’t been so high-strung about the whole situation, he would have frozen exactly like that when I first told him I loved him: eyes staring straight ahead, mouth just the teeniest bit open, and entire body as rigid as ice.

The white-blond man was just as still, radiating tranquil ocean to Skye’s lake frost.

Sherlock, it appeared, respected other people enough – or was in a good enough mood – to leave the boys alone for five whole minutes. I know, because I checked.

Then a loud thump signalled that Skye had pounced on the impostor; the boy was shaking him and shrieking like mad. My surprised brain barely had the time to register that the language was unintelligible before a startled RJ began inputting the English translations into it. “I thought you were dead!” Skye screamed. “You made me think – how _dare_ you – _fuck you, Aleksandr!_ ”

It really was Aleksandr, then.

What got to me was how Aleksandr just lay there and took it, his eyes closed against any possible blows. He made no move to defend himself, said nothing to justify anything, only lay still and let his brother have his way. I drew the inevitable conclusion, and it saddened me: Aleksandr thought he _deserved_ this.

Phoenix and RJ jumped in as soon as Skye’s outburst abated some; they pulled him off, but not before he managed one more kick to Aleksandr’s ribs and a broken, “You _fucking_ bastard,” in Canar.

Since RJ couldn’t hear Aleksandr anymore he couldn’t translate for me, so when Aleksandr spoke again, to Sherlock and me, we understood none of it. He sighed, and said in accented English, “I’m sorry about all that.” He lay there for another minute before heaving himself to his feet and sitting back down in the client’s chair. Sherlock appeared to be taking in the magnitude of calm, cheerful Skye’s violent reaction, and the rug was pulled out from under me, too.

“Are… are you here for a case?” I asked, seeing as he _was_ sitting in the client’s chair.

“I’m here for my brother.”

“ _Say that again!_ ” It was Skye, this time, and it was so damn _unsettling_ to hear how very like Moriarty he sounded, even in RJ’s English translation of his Canar. “Say that again, _Sasha_ , say it to my face!”

I stared.

I’d never seen so much as a glimpse of the vicious side of Skye – the part of the werewolf that was all fangs and silver eyes – but this was it. He was practically bristling; he was even baring his teeth in a true snarl, not a play one like he did with me and Sherlock. He genuinely saw Aleksandr as a potential threat.

Sitting down in my chair, I flashed Aleksandr the briefest of toothed grins to show him that Skye was part of my pack and I wouldn’t tolerate anything hostile towards him.

Aleksandr gave a very Mycroft-sounding sigh. “ _Maximka,_ ” he growled, in that way only older brothers can do. Oh yeah, Skye’s real name was _Maximilien._ I had to assume ‘Maximka’ was a kind of nickname.

Skye’s grin was positively poisonous, his eyes shining coldly. “I’m not doing anything, Sashura.” Another nickname, just like Sasha, I assumed. I wasn’t that well-versed in Russian, let alone Canar. “He’s doing that all on his own.”

“Excuse me,” I broke in. Phoenix nodded: _I’m translating this into Canar for Aleksandr in case you use a word he doesn’t know._ “How can we help you?” I gestured to Sherlock.

Aleksandr rolled his eyes. “I came here because I’m the informant and I couldn’t find anyone to report to back in RJ and Phoenix’s flat.” The young king raised an eyebrow at them. “You know, you two, when you’re waiting for an informant to report to you, you usually stay in a place they can find you.”

Skye bared his teeth again from the arm of the sofa. “Get to the point.”

“The rogues have vanished off the map.” At our alarmed expressions he leaned his elbows on his knees and rocked from side to side. “I’m working on it, but I suggest John and Sherlock find other cases. This, after all, is their only source of income, and they do need to pay the rent.”

“Is that all?” his brother muttered sarcastically. “I could’ve figured that out myself.”

Aleksandr stood up with a tint of peevishness in his indigo eyes. “Maximka, if that’s all, I’ll be going. You can come if you want. I don’t really care.” _Liar._ He did care; he cared very much.

Skye chuffed and fell back onto the sofa in a very Sherlock-esque sulk. “Get lost, Aleksandr.”

Sherlock was muttering something in my ear. “Clearly Aleksandr wants to reconcile – the amount of time since their initial falling-out suggests he might have tried several times – but his brother just as clearly demonstrates that he doesn’t. Therefore Aleksandr is probably the aggressor in the initial conflict and wants to make amends, while Skye is the one wronged and feels too insulted even now to do that.”

Skye shifted and curled up in front of the fireplace with an irritated chuff. He stayed there the entire day, even when Sherlock received the case of Mr. Turner's masterpiece.

When the night was over, Skye, RJ, and Phoenix were nowhere to be found, and the only response I got from Phoenix’s number when I texted him was ‘Sry, got 2 dash, can’t tell u y, rlly sry, give SH our regards. ~RJ’.

* * *

“’Confirmed bachelor John Watson’.” I chuckled, slapping the paper down. “Got to give them credit, though, they did their research for once.” I sobered immediately. The fact that we were dating wasn’t really a big secret – after all, I had posted it on the blog – but the fact that the media was tracking down my blog and making articles about us wasn’t exactly comforting.

“It’s got flaps – ear flaps – it’s an _ear hat_ , John!” He tossed the deerstalker at me.  “What do you mean, more careful?”

“I mean, Sher – and this isn’t a deerstalker now, it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat, and that’s what I mean, Sher. You’re not exactly a _private_ detective anymore. You’re _this_ far from famous!” There was absolutely no way this could turn out well – this fucking media circus combined with my socially oblivious Bohemian hermit of a boyfriend would only result in a disaster.

Sherlock threw himself down into his chair, tenting his hands huffily. “Oh, it’ll pass.”

“It better pass,” I growled, trying to get him to see the issue. “But the press will turn, Sherlock, they always turn. And they’ll turn on _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Notice that Aleksandr never addresses Skye as 'Maximilien'. That's because in Russian culture (where I borrowed the nickanming norm from) as I understand it, usually only strangers and acquaintances address a person by given name (usually with the patronymic, but that's not how Canar works). Friends use a chosen diminutive, and family uses a more affectionate form of that diminutive. For Maximilien, that diminutive is 'Maxim'; 'Maximka' is the affectionate form, at least for Skye. 
> 
> Now, notice that while Aleksandr always addresses Skye as 'Maximka', the only times Skye addresses his brother by diminutive ('Sasha' and 'Sashura') he's being deliberately familiar because he's insulting him. Every other time, he uses Aleksandr's given name. I don't know how younger brothers address older ones, but just between brothers that's a pretty big insult. Skye is basically reducing Aleksandr to a stranger - worse, even, since he uses the diminutives to insult him. Skye has cut Aleksandr out of his circle completely, even going so far as to nonverbally signal that Aleksandr is now a hostile figure to him.
> 
> Sorry, just thought it would give a bit more context. I couldn't find a way to input that into the text, but it does contextualize the nicknames and emphasize the fractured relationship between the Nordskov brothers.


	10. The Game is On [Sherlock]

The break-ins were, admittedly, a brilliant move.

Millions of eyes were already on me, as the Reichenbach hero, as the shining private detective. Challenging me at that point, with my fame at its height, ensured that not only were we both headline news, but also that some of that fame turned to notoriety. I wasn’t known for my likability or my humility, and getting me into a courtroom almost guaranteed that I’d show off at someone’s expense.

Everything was easily explainable, if one assumed that there was a motive for everything that he did. This was James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, who controlled the literal underworld. He was Hades, king of the shadows, ruler of all the light couldn’t touch. And I… I was to be Odysseus, amused by, toyed with, until he got tired of me and pulled me back in with the threat of harm to John.  Until I looked back.

Mycroft and Phoenix, fortunately, were there to help. Otherwise, I’d just have given Moriarty the perfect gun for my death: John, or rather, danger to John. That would force me to do anything.

Still. Working together, Mycroft and I constructed a plan to lure Moriarty in and destroy his web. There _was_ a criminal empire there, and if we left it alone eventually another spider would come to control it. We wouldn’t just have to kill Moriarty. We had to break up the web.

Phoenix I briefly considered as an asset or a colleague in the destruction of the web, but in the end there were too many cons to his involvement to be able to bring him in: he had a job (workable), he wasn’t very well-versed in agent work (not so much workable), and his resources were severely limited (huge con, not workable at all). Skye would presumably be an asset as well, but given that he was a werewolf with very eclectic interests and ambiguous motives I decided against trusting him far enough to tell him, let alone to save my life should I end up in a desperate situation.

Molly was a particularly good asset. No one ever thought of Molly; even I’d overlooked her at first as just another boring romantic girl with a crush on me. She _did_ like me, though I found out later she’d quickly gotten over her attraction the first time I played on it to get her to do me a favour. (Just like with Mycroft, we carried on as a sort of smokescreen. I did like her immensely; if one got past the insipid musicals and romcoms she was actually a very intelligent girl.)

“So would you do that for me?” I asked, leaning back in my designated chair in her flat. She’d assigned me a chair after the first few times I turned up soaking wet.

“Of course I will,” she answered immediately. “Just… tell John. He’s your boyfriend, Sherlock, he’s got a right to know.”

“I need the grief to be genuine, at least for a while,” I explained. “He’s not a very good actor; he’s too honest. If I tell him I’ll fake my death he’ll make his mourning either too low-key or too over-the-top – either way, we’re going to get caught. –”

“Stop it.” The sharp tone cut me off at once, and I looked up. “Stop it right there. You don’t get to decide what he can’t know, Sherlock, that’s just not how a relationship works.”

I huffed in a way Molly knew meant ‘it’s for his/her/their/your own good’.

She raised her eyebrow.

* * *

When my ginger counterpart and his brunet turned up at the flat while John was out getting groceries, I knew something was up. “The Wolves’ Web, Sherlock,” Phoenix said grimly. “It’s part of Moriarty’s network – at least, most of the London one is. We’ve traced the leads we have on the rogues back to Moriarty. They supplied him with the key code – they helped him break into all those high-security establishments.”

“Of course, they’re not the whole force,” RJ put in. “But they’re a significant enough amount of it that magic is part of their operations. I recognised quite a few sigs.”

“What?” I murmured distractedly.

“Mental signatures, sigs.”

“Oh.”

At that very moment Lestrade and Donovan strode in. Phoenix whirled sharply. “Police, here about a case – Rollo, what kind?”

“Kidnapping,” RJ responded promptly. “Ooh, the Bruhl kids.”

“Oh great, now there’s three of them,” Donovan groaned in the background. Lestrade blinked. “Well, Sherlock, it’s got some interesting bits. Will you come?”

“Only if we can come too,” RJ said firmly. Looking distantly out the window so as to appear distracted, I muttered an agreement. There was a bit of an argument that I phased through, until John’s “Sherlock? Something weird” had everyone freezing as the door opened and he stumbled into the battlefield. “Oh. Case?”

“Kidnapping,” RJ replied.

“Rufus Bruhl, ambassador to the US,” Lestrade said, quickly overridden by Phoenix saying, “Well, no, his kids, actually. Young, I’d say. Minors. Rollo?”

I knew he was just showing off and trying to irritate Donovan – he and RJ had a telepathic bond, they didn’t need to talk to transmit information. But RJ answered verbally, “Ages nine and seven. Names: Max and Claudette, respectively.”

“Okay, okay now that’s just creepy,” Lestrade complained, backing away from the Wilde-Hawthorne pair.

“And that’s exactly why you’ll take us along.” Phoenix grinned. “Together, we four are better than Sherlock could ever be alone, so you’ll take us, DI Lestrade, because we’re here.” He crossed his arms and winked at me.

The kidnapping case was _neat_. In a macabre replay of (apparently) ‘Hansel and Gretel’ from the fairy tales, Moriarty had tracked down a kidnapper with a shoe size and height that was strangely similar to my own, based on the footprints he left. All he left the kids to eat was mercury-poisoned chocolate, and since the boy was older, it meant he was hungrier, meaning he ate more of the mercury and came closer to dying than his sister. On the whole, it was somewhere between an eight and a nine; perfect for me.

John, resourceful John, had pinched me as soon as he took a good whiff of the girl’s room – her specific scent – and whispered, “You find evidence. I can track them.” It would’ve looked a bit fishy if John knew exactly where they were, especially considering our position at the moment, so I did as I was told.

As soon as we’d busted through the warehouse doors John was dragging me along with him, and it had only taken him one sniff at the wrappers to realise they’d been poisoned, though he hadn’t known what with. He was the first to find the kids, focused on saving lives before solving the case. I had been sniffing at the wrappers when his cry of ‘Here!’ sent all the officers pelting in his direction.

One thing that bothered me was how Claudette started screaming as soon as she saw me. I’d watched as Phoenix and RJ had talked to her, I knew she wasn’t going to be screaming at strangers who weren’t police, but she’d begun shrieking the moment her eyes found me. Now what could that mean?

 _She’s not acting,_ Phoenix had confirmed mentally. _She’s really scared of you – or rather, your face._

That meant that somehow she connected _me_ with the trauma she’d experienced. I certainly wasn’t the kidnapper; however, the kidnapper _did_ have a similar shoe size and height – it clicked.

A child that age couldn’t have been acting that well – Claudette was genuinely terrified of me. It wasn’t a general reaction – she hadn’t reacted that way either to the NSY officers or to Phoenix and RJ. Therefore only my specific features scared her, meaning that the criminal Moriarty hired must have looked like me, because there was no other way to make a seven-year-old child associate me with trauma.

_Brilliant._

The IOU was a bit more disturbing, seeing as it followed a similar one carved into an apple left at Baker Street.

* * *

“He died because I shook his hand.” My mind, sharpened by adrenaline, raced to the conclusion. He wasn’t shot until after he took my hand – he’d been interacting with me for a good ten seconds before he was shot. That meant it wasn’t getting near me that was the problem – it was actually interacting with me.

“What d’you mean?” John’s query barely registered on my mind.

He wasn’t shot when he pulled me out of the way of that car; that meant that the other assassins’ orders included keeping me alive, otherwise he’d have been shot before then. “He saved my life but couldn’t touch me. Why?” I whirled off in the direction of 221B, with John tagging at my heels after sniffing at the assassin’s body.

I verbalised the parts of my thought process John would need to understand. “Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn’t come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive.” What did that mean? Quickly, Sherlock! “I’ve got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me…” I sat down at the table, flicking out my wrists before getting to work on the laptop.

“…the others kill them before they can get it,” John finished, leaning out to check the window.

I made an ‘hm’ of agreement and checked the Wi-Fi networks; five, all in a foreign language for a foreign user. Signal strength is directly proportional to distance, meaning that two of them were very close and the others were moderately so. “All of the attention is focused on me. There’s a surveillance web closing in on us right now.”

John read over my shoulder. “So what have you got that’s so important?”

I thought for a moment before the conclusion blinked into my mind’s eyes like the sign of Angelo’s on date night. I swiped my finger beside the laptop. “We need to ask about the dusting.”

Mrs. Hudson was dragged upstairs and questioned – lino on Tuesday, not important, deleted – while I thought out loud. Skull, no. Shelves – no, no, hmm… disturbance on the far right. And… aha! I pried the little camera off the shelf as Lestrade and John entered the room. It was then that I noticed that not only had John gone down, Phoenix and RJ had also not followed us back to the flat. Hm.

But first things first. “No.”

“What?”

“The answer’s no.”

“But you haven’t heard the question!” _I don’t have to, Lestrade. Your agitation screams it already, not to mention the fact that there’s a police car outside with the sirens on._

“You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking.” I finally looked up from the camera to find a frazzled-looking Lestrade staring at me. I barely let him get past my name before I interrupted. “The screaming?”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan.” No doubt in my mind. “Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Oh, Moriarty is _smart._ He planted that doubt in her head; that little nagging sensation. You’re going to have to be strong to resist. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home _there_.” For emphasis I jabbed a finger at Lestrade’s forehead, right above his nose.

An idea is impossible to kill, even for me. There was a bit more babble; honestly I’ve deleted it all. Lestrade was clearly reluctant, and John was just as clearly resisting the wolf’s cries to be let out, seeing as he was already tilting his head up, trying to stand taller than the officers.

I was lead down the stairs by a sighing Lestrade, passing a smug-looking man who seemed to be Lestrade’s superior (any other details I deduced are irrelevant). A few moments later we heard a thud, then a scuffling sound and Donovan calling out, “Inspector! _Greg!_ ”

Lestrade handed me off to another officer and bounded back up the stairs; I realised what had just happened. Wolf-John had just been unleashed, and he was _not_ happy.

They only had one pair of handcuffs, so they had to handcuff a significantly roughed-up John to my left hand. The wolf still smouldered in his eyes, even as I tried to calm him down by talking. Our grand escape consisted of me pretending to take John hostage (which most people on that scene took as a sign of my sociopathy by the looks on their faces – John _was_ my boyfriend, after all) and basically running.

An IOU had been graffitied onto the wall.

Three IOUs – one at NSY, two at 221B (one in the flat and one just across). Not good. And oh, the key code – I backed away as four bullets embedded themselves into the assassin in front of me. Three of the bullets came from somewhere in the building by the body. The other one –

Skye bounded out of the gloom, holding a smoking pistol, followed by Phoenix. The blond smirked. “Basically… _Run._ ”

I looked back for only a few seconds before being yanked up by John. The fourth shot had been Skye’s, it was straight through the man’s forehead: an exact shot. Skye had been sprint-level running when the shot was fired, he couldn’t have been any less than twenty paces away from us. A twenty-pace shot, in the dark, while running? _Trained to use a gun_. A kill shot, fired exactly – his hands were steady, acclimatised to killing people or violence then. He was perfectly calm even now. He had had no military training at all, so what other profession would require such precision with a bullet?

_Assassin._

Beside me, John cocked his head to look at the blond and the ginger, squeezing my hand in a gesture of comfort and protectiveness. “Why haven’t you shifted yet?’

Skye grinned and waved the pistol. “Makes it easier to hold a gun. Where are we going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles* Yeah, I'm leaving you guys here for a while. Comments keep writers writing! *shameless begging* Please.
> 
> Oh, and if there are any inaccuracies, feel free to tell me!


	11. Blurred and Erased [John]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reichenbach Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was helped enormously by Ariana DeVere's [transcript](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/21228.html)! They also have transcripts for all other _Sherlock_ episodes, as far as I know.

“Why’d you kill him, though?” I asked. “He wasn’t doing anything.”

“Yes he was,” Skye muttered grimly. “More accurately, he was _going_ to do something. John, what happened to your gun?”

“Dropped it,” I answered. Skye nodded in response, and my brain observed quietly that Phoenix and RJ must’ve gone for help, and while Phoenix had gotten hold of Skye, RJ had gone for someone else – Aleksandr, probably. Oh God, Sherlock was infecting me too – for all his talk of how my terminology had affected his thought processes his own methods were a bit intrusive too.

Phoenix tossed a newspaper at me and began digging around in his pockets – he was wearing this ridiculously voluminous coat over a green plaid shirt and black tie. “Might want to have a look at that.”

“Hey Sherlock –” I held the paper out to him as we paused for breath, two or three blocks away from where Skye had shot the assassin. “Have you seen this? A kiss and tell. Some bloke named Rich Brook.” His hand in mine curled reflexively; the name meant something to him.

“Hang on – what the fuck?” Skye took the paper. “Rich Brook, what kind of sick game is this?” He looked up, his hands instinctively loading his pistol as if knowing what kind of trouble was stirring. “Sherlock, what’s your plan?”

Sher tapped the paper. “Exclusive from _Kitty Riley._ Oh, this’ll be fun.”

* * *

Sherlock’s voice was calm to those who didn’t know him. I knew that tone, however, and it was full of acid. “Congratulations. The truth about Sherlock Holmes.” He paced back and forth, with Phoenix biting his lip as if to avoid saying anything, and Skye flicking out a knife, of all things, and twirling it. “The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it. Bravo.”

Kitty looked up at him with something in between terror and contempt. “I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so…” She shrugged.

“And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How  _utterly_  convenient.” Sherlock sneered. Usually I’d reprimand him, but I was both too angry at Kitty Riley and too concentrated on freeing my own hand from the cuffs to care. “Who is Brook?” 

She shook her head. Sher rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Kitty. No-one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone. As I tugged my hand free and tossed the cuffs at Skye, he continued: “There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone.”

“Perfect for building trust into the unsuspecting, you know,” Skye interjected. “Someone turns up with diamonds and gold in his very pockets…”

“What were his credentials?” Sherlock finished.

Someone opened the door, and Skye breathed in deeply, as if catching someone’s scent. My wolfish brain identified the scent as something I’d smelled before being turned, someone I knew before my transformation…

“Darling, they didn’t have any ground coffee so I just got normal –” said Jim Moriarty.

* * *

For the next few minutes, all I fully registered were my boyfriend’s wide eyes and Moriarty’s snivelling, my senses reeling in light of this new information. It all made sense, it all made terrible, terrible sense, and my wolf howled with the need to protect, _protect Sherlock_ at any cost. I barely recall surging forward before my cloudy mind was suddenly cleared.

 _Don’t make this any worse than it already is,_ Phoenix whispered mentally. _I’ll keep you as calm as I can, but you have to handle this rationally, because I don’t know if I can help you anymore. I’m too angry, John, I can’t control your anger if I’m angry too._

I took a deep breath and whirled to face the ginger reporter. “So  _that’s_  your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?” My voice was quieter than I thought it would be.

“Of course he’s Richard Brook. There  _is_  no Moriarty. There never has been!”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded, confused and pissed and more than a little impatient. Phoenix huffed and began to pace his own circuit beyond Kitty.

Kitty continued, “Look him up. Rich Brook – an actor Sherlock Holmes _hired_ to be Moriarty.”

Sherlock didn’t have the air of someone whose dirty laundry was being aired. He was staring, almost nonplussed, at the scene unfolding before his eyes. Moriarty seemed on the edge of hysteria, holding up his hands and gasping for breath. “Doctor Watson, I know you’re a good man.” His voice even cracked and blurred in places – the consummate actor.

 _John,_ Phoenix murmured, sounding strained. _John I can’t handle it anymore. Too much –_ With a hasty “I need some air” he bolted out of the room.

Moriarty backed into a corner as I approached him. He must’ve mistaken my calm for cold anger, since he stammered, “Don’t ... don’t h – don’t hurt me.”

“You _are_ Moriarty, though,” I said. “We’ve met, remember? You might’ve forgotten, but try and remember… yeah, remember the pool? You were gonna blow me up.”

Somewhat reassured by Sherlock’s catatonia and my calmness, the consulting criminal scrubbed his face and slid down to the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He gestured to Sherlock beseechingly. “He paid me. I needed the work. I’m an actor. I was out of work. I’m sorry, okay?”

I got an idea. Frazzling my outer appearance, I turned to my detective, as if in shock. “Sherlock, you’d better… explain… because I am not getting this.”

Kitty stepped forward with a folder that she opened and handed to me. “Oh  _I’ll_ … I’ll be doing the explaining – in print. It’s all here – conclusive proof. You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis.”

I didn’t understand. It was just draft sheets and layout prints. I scanned the upcoming article, and there was no actual proof – just arguments that turned circles and didn’t address the issue. I had no doubt that Kitty was a good enough journalist, but the way she wrote the article would never have changed the minds of anyone who believed Sherlock was really a detective. Injecting upset into my voice, I murmured, “Invented him?”

Phoenix barged back in. “Here, give me that.” He snatched the paper out of my hands and looked it over. He looked at Kitty, flapping the paper. “Got any more?”

She gladly showed us the maroon folder of evidence – snapshots of Rich Brook’s career as an actor, interviews, casting articles, a CV, everything. Phoenix flipped through it methodically in a way that reminded me of Sherlock himself, who was still staring at Moriarty. _I know he’s lying, John,_ he groaned in my head. _He’s emanating it like a pro, that detachment and immersed emotion so necessary for the actor. He’s screaming it like Guy Fawkes Night but I can’t prove anything because I’m just a **bloody empath!**_ His silent rage shot through me, as heady as adrenaline but not nearly so pleasant.

So, Phoenix wasn’t quite as calm as he appeared.

Moriarty looked plaintively at me and Phoenix, even at Skye, who appeared to be dozing. “Just tell them. It’s all coming out now. It’s all over.” His voice rose frantically. “Just tell them. Just tell them.  _Tell him!_ ”

I looked up to see Sherlock stalking forward, his teeth bared. “It’s all over,” Moriarty chittered. “It’s all – _no!_ ” He fell back on the stairs as the detective came closer. “Don’t you touch me!” he yelled. “Don’t you lay a finger on me!”

“Stop it,” Sherlock growled, and I imagined black hackles rising as his voice rose to a roar. “Stop it _now!_ ”

Chaos erupted – Sher and I chased him up the stairs, Phoenix tossed Skye the folder, and Skye blinked awake. Before I knew it I was trapped in the darkness of Aleksandr’s vacuum again, just the thought of John Watson.

“Nobody move,” Skye purred, the sound no more existent than light. It was more a thought than anything else. “I made this vacuum, and only I can let you out of it.”

Suddenly I crashed back into myself, staring into a startled Sherlock’s iridescent eyes as I gave him a quick kiss and curled protectively around him. I took in the scene: Skye, standing at one end of the room, his eyes a luminous electric blue; and Kitty in the centre, frozen and enveloped in shadows.

“Some food for thought, Katherine Riley.” Skye flicked the folder out and wreathed it in dark fire. “ _Rich Brook_ in German is _Reichenbach_. That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

_Oh!_

“You think Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath?” he continued. “Then you don’t want to see what I can do. I’m not clever like Sherlock or Moriarty, because yes, they’re brilliant, but I _am_ smart.” He released her, his eyes going back to their normal glacial colour. “Remember that.”

* * *

Molly was a paragon of heaven, I swear. She took us in without a peep of refusal and offered to smuggle us to a different refuge should we need it. I thanked her profusely, but all she did was smile – though I was fairly sure she winked at me too. We waited and waited – or at least I waited (and offered non-contaminated tea) as Sherlock tried to figure out the key code so that we could hack into the records and destroy Rich Brook once and for all.

And then that call. Dear God, that call. “You’re the emergency contact of one Mrs. Martha Hudson. She’s just been shot,” an androgynous voice said kindly. A doubt lingered in my mind, but as the paramedic went into details I shook it off aggressively.

Jesus. _Jesus Christ._ One of the assassins must’ve gotten impatient and just – gone off.

“What is it?”

“Paramedics,” I stammered, still reeling. “Mrs. Hudson’s been shot. She’s dying, Sherlock, let’s go.” He refused – actually refused! What – how – why? He’d once half-killed a man and _lied about it_ because that man harmed her. Again and again I pleaded with him to just _come on,_ but again and again he blew me off.

“Sherlock!” I cried at last. “She’s _pack!_ ”

“Yes, well, _I’m_ not a dog.” The acidic words almost physically burned me, and I recoiled. Who the hell was this man and what had he done with Sherlock Holmes? Not even in the beginning had Sher been so scornful.

The wolf, hurt and panicked, bit back. “Yeah? Well, thank God for that.” After acting that way, maybe he didn’t deserve to be one. “But you’re no human either.”

“And what sort of creature am I, then?” he drawled derisively.

Just fuck this all. Fuck it. Fuck him. “When you’re like that you ain’t a living creature – …you machine! You know what? Sod this, _sod this_. You stay here, if you want, but _I’m_ going.” I banged the door behind me and stormed out to hail a cab, fuming.

I’d been too high-strung at the time to remember that my wolf had snarled during the phone call, smelling a lie. I was too upset during the cab ride to 221B to think about why I felt bad about leaving Sherlock behind. In the end, I made a completely irrational decision based on my much more fallible human instinct, and I fell for the trick.

A sinking horror settled into my stomach and fear threatened to spill out of my throat. Terror curled its tendrils around me and clouded my brain even as I hailed a cab back to Bart’s.

I darted out, answering my mobile, and just as quickly was pulled up short by Sherlock’s voice. Okay, okay, he wasn’t dead. Some part of me settled down, but my lupine instincts told me it wasn’t over yet, something I was much more inclined to listen to after the events of the past half-hour.

Sherlock was _on the roof_.

No. No. No, nononono _no_ –

“Sherlock,” I murmured. Dammit, my voice was shaking. “Get down from there. Get down, get down _get down now._ ”

But he ignored me, the git, and began talking. It was just wild – even if he’d been lying from the start the wolf would’ve been able to tell since I’d been bitten, and we’d been on dozens of cases since then. It was just – just not possible.

I listened, paralyzed, as he talked on, ‘explaining’ how he’d faked all the deduction bits and how Moriarty was right. “This phone call – it’s, er… it’s my note.”

“What?” I croaked.

“It’s what people do, don’t they?” His voice dwindled to a murmur. “…Leave a note.”

Oh _Christ,_ he couldn’t be thinking of that, could he? _No,_ I reprimanded that little voice in my head. _He can’t._ The rooftop, the phone call, the stupid fake confession. It made horrible sense. “Please.” The word forced itself out of my throat in a fear-soaked whisper. “Please, Sher, don’t do this.”

“Goodbye, John.” That awful finality – no –

“No, don’t – _please,_ Sherlock –”

Sherlock jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intentionally stretched the Kitty Riley scenes because John is on hyper-alert, he's aware, he remembers, while at the end he was fuzzy from grief and something else (spoilers that I won't say), which meant that he couldn't relate the story properly.
> 
> Edit 08 Jan 2019: Adding transcript link.


	12. The End of the Beginning [John]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, John's POV again, because there's no way I can narrate this bit from Sherlock's POV. Anyway, thank you again to NovaNara for the incredible fic that this is a remix of! Hope you liked Skye and the others :)

My cry tore from my throat in an anguished howl, becoming my only clear memory of the next fifteen minutes. However hard I try, that’s the only thing that stood out from a haze of people and noise and _Sherlockcorpsebloodno_ –

I remember trying to hug his body and being yanked away by about three different people. I wasn’t going to let them take him away again, after what he’d just done to himself and to me. Then pelting footsteps and the relief of a packmate’s presence. Three loud cracks – _shots,_ I thought hazily – snapped the bustle, and a woozy silence fell. “John,” Phoenix’s voice; patient and ragged and blurry at the edges. “John, it’s – it’s okay, John, look at me –”

No it bloody wasn’t. It wasn’t okay.

But I looked at him, and numbness flooded my body just as unconsciousness did.

* * *

When I woke up, I was in 221B on my bed with the three boys curled together in a ball on the floor. Skye blinked awake and met my eyes, then turned around and shook the other two until they were awake too. Blinking the sleep from their eyes, they gathered at my feet. Skye was in his usual denim jacket, white shirt, and leather boots. RJ was in a light grey cashmere jumper, with a minty blue collar poking out. Phoenix’s slept-in-my-clothes look was confirmed by the wrinkled green-plaid shirt and the lopsided black tie, though he’d lost the ridiculous coat.

I told them the bad news, but as soon as I said ‘Sherlock is dead’ I stopped. I couldn’t remember _how_ he died. It was blank, fuzzy, a haze of a field beyond a rainy window. A vague feeling of grief and loss pervaded the space in my mind where the memories should’ve been, but there were no memories.

RJ buried his face in his hands, leaning against his boyfriend who put an arm around him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I could only look confused as RJ burst into quiet tears in front of me.

Phoenix’s and Skye’s faces were grave, as if they too had bad news for me. “We’re all sorry, John.” Skye’s hand was gentle on my shoulder. I looked up at him, and I saw a boy who had been forced to do something unforgivable. “We did something that’s borderline illegal back home, and… well, it’s a lot not good. I don’t regret it, but I do think you will.”

“What? What did you do?”

RJ, drying his tears, took a deep breath. “I had to lock your memory.”

“You _what_?!”

“You were tearing yourself apart!” he protested. “You were shutting down, a star turning into a black hole, and I – and I had to stop that from happening. For Sherlock, if nothing else.” His eyes, blurry with tears, shone the same grey-blue-green as Sherlock’s. “I couldn’t let you do that to yourself.”

“None of us could.” Skye stared me down. “If you have to blame someone, blame me. I made them do it.”

Heat raced up my spine as the wolf bristled. “ _Why?_ ” I demanded, my voice more roar than question. They had no right to do that to me.

“With the stress you were under, you couldn’t cope with what you were experiencing. If I hadn’t, you would’ve gone comatose, or worse,” RJ explained. “I… okay, for a non-telepath you have a surprisingly visually-oriented mind. Most non-telepaths’ brains are organised in a way more abstract manner. Well, all I had to do was cut off the memories’ neural connections, so to speak.”

When I began to protest, Phoenix held up a hand. “There’s a sort of security system. If the trigger word is said, there are consequences. This is it. Don’t say it out loud.” He handed me a slip of paper.

I read it and looked up in shock.

“He was working on a time crunch, since he had less than a minute before your brain shut down all conscious work and he didn’t want to wake you up again. So he chose the first rare phrase he could find.” Phoenix bit his lip apologetically – that boy was inventing whole new ways to bite one’s lip!

RJ took over. “Basically, if someone says that phrase, the lock system activates. That lock is only triggered by active feed from your auditory nerves.” To my raised eyebrow, he said, “In layman’s terms it only works if you _hear_ the phrase. It can’t be triggered by a _memory_ of someone saying it.”

I nodded, feeling just the tiniest bit mollified. This way, I reasoned, I could work through Sherlock’s death without the trauma of the nightmarish scene flashing at me every which way. I already had PTSD!

“So the fail-safe is programmed for just five voices: yours, Sherlock’s, mine, Phoenix’s, and Skye’s. I put in Sherlock’s because I thought you’d like the touch.” RJ smiled sadly, though I thought I saw mischief at the edges. “The fail-safe unlocks the memories so you can access them again, then dissolves the system so that the trigger phrase is safe to use afterwards, without any fear of your memories being messed with.”

“And the fail-deadly?’

“Is programmed for any voice that isn’t the five aforementioned ones,” RJ responded promptly. “The fail-deadly permanently destroys both the memories and the system with no negative side-effects. That means if anyone tries to access those memories through you, or tries to force you to relive them in order to incapacitate you, it won’t be possible. You won’t even feel it.”

“What if someone says it completely innocently?” I asked. The trigger they’d chosen wasn’t a very unnatural set of words, after all. Someone _could_ accidentally still say it.

“That’s not very likely to happen,” Skye assured me. “Since Sherlock is… well, dead, you’re not going on any cases anytime soon, and I assume that phrase was related to a previous case. Anyway, the probability of the client from that previous case showing up again and saying _that exact phrase_ to you is small enough that it’s a safe trigger.”

A thought had barely half-formed in my mind before RJ shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to unlock your memories now. You’re still in shock, and it’s not going to be good for you.” He pointed to my hand.

It was shaking.

_Fuck._

* * *

I transformed that night, and I was miserable. Skye tried to get me to come run with him, but my wolf and I were both too sad, to put it lightly. In the end, I ended up riding out the full moon nights either haunting the streets of London like a ghost, or buried in one of the boys’ sleeping bags in the upstairs room as the piled around me – a sort of sad sleepover, if you will.

The week leading up to the funeral was only tolerable because of Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly (bless those three), and the boys. The former trio made sure to keep me well-stocked with wine (not too much, mind), tea, biscuits, distractions, and love. The latter made sure I was never in want of comfort or company.

All in all, I only survived that week because of those six people.

My hand shook at random intervals, and my leg started hurting again. Fucking PTSD, I thought it’d left me alone for good. I was stupid to think things worked that way.

The seven of us went to the funeral together. It seemed strange to me to see Skye dressed in a suit, but dressed in a suit he was, and I had the privilege of seeing Phoenix and RJ struggle to convince him to wear it. He did refuse to wear a tie though, and insisted on wearing a rose in his buttonhole – “if I must look ridiculous in this thing, I’ll do it with style” – blue, to boot!

Greg, who’d dropped by to pick us up, cracked up at Skye’s antics and exchanged a sad look with me.

Surprisingly, Sally Donovan was there too, though I tried not to be _too_ angry at her. She hadn’t known. It wasn’t all her fault. I think I saw Anderson hanging out in the back as well.

The place in my soul where Sherlock used to be stung horribly, and no matter that I couldn’t remember the way he actually died, I had plenty of ammunition against myself from the two years we’d lived together. Every time I’d ever yelled at him for leaving the milk out, or body parts in the fridge, or using my laptop without permission returned to me with painful clarity.

I’d never been as grateful to or for Greg as right then. Apparently Sherlock had committed suicide. That didn’t make the pain any better. It was agony, and that’s all I’ll say.

My speech was just _terrible_. I started crying when I got to the part where we began dating, and if it was terrible before, it went downhill from there. I don’t think anyone understood the end of it, through all the sporadic sobbing and ugly-crying, but it was a bit cathartic to step down from my official farewell to the best and wisest man I knew, and collapse against Greg, who put a comforting arm around me.

If I found it weird and a bit appalling that Sherlock’s parents weren’t at their son’s funeral, it slipped my mind in the midst of the numb torture that was being at said funeral.

The adjournment to the cemetery was the worst. Wolves don’t traditionally bury their dead, and Skye had explained to me the day before that sometimes werewolves are stressed at burials because their wolves fundamentally don’t understand the practice, especially if the deceased person was close to the werewolf.

He was right. My wolf rose to the surface in confusion and grief as the casket was being lowered into the ground, my human side remembering that Sherlock had hated being stuck in any one place and liked to be free to wander in and out as he wished. I remember wishing that I could pry off the lid and he’d sit up and laugh about how he’d gotten us all – and that was it.

I was mortified to find out later that I’d jumped and tried to take the casket, and it took a wiry young werewolf and a determined DI to restrain me until Sherlock was buried. _Are you okay?_ Skye mouthed as the buzz in my ears subsided and human John once again took control.

I nodded even though I wasn’t completely sure about that answer.

Mycroft took me aside as soon as the ceremony officially ended. _We’ll see you at Baker Street,_ RJ whispered mentally.

Taking a breath that seemed only to stall for time, the elder Holmes brother said, “I need you to trust me, Dr. Watson, implicitly. When you see a car at 221B Baker Street at exactly 7:00 this evening, ask the driver if the fishing is good. If he answers ‘You’d have better luck in Sussex’, get in.”

“Don’t mock me, Mycroft Holmes,” I snapped. The guy hadn’t even noticed that his little brother was suicidal ( _you should’ve noticed, John, you monster_ ), and now I was supposed to trust him?

“I can assure you I’m not. Just get in the car, and don’t bring anyone with you.”

“What?” I blinked at him. “Why can’t I bring the boys?”

“Because this is an extremely delicate matter, Dr. Watson, and I cannot afford to let three unauthorised and unaccounted-for _boys_ –” he spat the word “– into it without damaging it irreparably.” He sounded, at that moment, to me, a thousand times more annoying than Sherlock at his most disdainful. “Don’t doubt Sherlock, and don’t doubt me either. I will personally make sure you’re seen to.”

_“So when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?”_

_“Yes of course.”_

In the end, I agreed. There was nothing now that I would like better than to be reunited with my mate, and if trusting his brother was the way to go, I didn’t give a toss. Sherlock was gone and there wasn’t really much I could do anymore. Mycroft was with the government – if he got me running dangerous errands on behalf of Queen and country, I’d agree with a smile and hope it was deadly. Not just for the adrenaline; maybe I’d be offed somewhere in Hungary by a particularly merciful criminal.

I spared a thought for Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and the boys. What would they think?

* * *

When I got home, I knew exactly what the trio would think. Because they said it. The moment I told them what Mycroft had said, RJ let out an exhilarated laugh of pure triumph, jumping up and sweeping his boyfriend into what looked like a celebratory kiss/hug victory dance.

Then they turned to Skye and yelled, “Called it!” at the top of their lungs. Skye rolled his eyes, only to meet my confused, slightly peeved gaze, and glance back at the pair, as if to say ‘ _Ask them, not me._ ’

There was a sort of nausea in my stomach. How could the boys be so casual, so dismissive of Mycroft’s veiled threat? _Don’t hurt the boys,_ I thought fiercely as the wolf began fighting for control. It would have succeeded had Skye not snarled at RJ with more annoyance than anger and indicated me.

Their faces fell at once. “Bad time, bad place, generally bad taste all around,” RJ said quickly. “But seriously, this isn’t what you think this is.”

“What is it, then?” I crossed my arms.

He winked. “You’ll see. And you’re going to love it. Just hang in there, John Hamish Watson!” His boyish joy reminded me of Matt Smith’s Eleventh Doctor – manic and infectious in his excitement. Rather like Sherlock, now that I thought about it.

The wolf did _not_ like the death of his mate being mocked like that. Its hackles rose angrily. Skye gave me a kind look. “They’re still boys, and they forget things like that.”

“I’ve been here for a week,” I bit out. “They can forget why they had to erase my memory?”

“Both of them have seen death before, even the deaths of loved ones. Phoenix’s buried his father and RJ’s been a first-hand witness to the brutal murder of his sister. They forget that this is your first time seeing a death like that.” The wolf, appeased somewhat, receded, and I noticed that the two little gits were no longer in the room.

“Just remember, John,” Skye told me. “You can trust Mycroft.”

* * *

When the clock on my mobile flicked to 6:59 PM, I shouted to the boys that I was going out, caught up my coat, and ran down the stairs just in time to see a black car (typical, Mycroft) turn the corner. As it pulled up, I knocked on the window and the driver lowered it. “D’you think the fishing’s good this time of year?”

“You’d have better luck in Sussex, sir,” responded the driver, and as the window rolled back up I got in and curled up against the door.

I tended to zone out on long car rides, and zone out I did, lost in my own world of numbed grief and wondering what RJ had meant, until the name of a village I recognised jumped out at me from beyond the glass protection of the window. Were we… were we going to Baskerville?

Was this Mycroft’s idea of making sure I was ‘seen to’? He knew what I was. He’d probably been dying to dissect me since I’d told him. The wolf in me whimpered at the thought of being inspected and stuck under a microscope, and a pit began to form in my stomach, quite apart from the hollowness already there. Was he just planning to make me a lab rat or did he want to kill me outright for his scientists to perform post-mortems on?

“ _You can trust Mycroft_ ,” Skye had said. Had he been mistaken? He certainly hadn’t been deliberately lying.

They didn’t bring me to the Baskerville facility, though. We stopped in the middle of the moor, literally in the middle of nowhere, and I saw a familiar head of curly hair out the window. Oh, great. I was hallucinating. _And you’re going to love it._ Well, at least I liked this hallucination.

Hold up a moment… I could smell him too? What was the point of making this hallucination so detailed – or making it at all? I opened the door slowly and began walking toward it.

That was when it began running, and before I knew it my lupine senses were assaulted with the scent of moor and Dartmoor village smells and _Sherlock._ I was tugged sharply against a coated chest with a scarf on it, my collarbone uncomfortably held against a button.

Weirdly, it was the irritating sensation of that button that grounded me. It wasn’t a hallucination then. I looked up, and saw the well-remembered face smiling back at me, as if _he_ couldn’t quite believe I was real. I found my voice then. “You’re… you’re alive.” _And you’re going to love it, John Hamish Watson._ “You’re alive! Why didn’t you tell me, you absolute dick?”

He laughed and hugged me again. “Oh, _John_ ,” he cried, fuller of life and force and will than I’d ever seen him. It was infectious, and in no time I was smiling, my wolf leaping at the sight, the smell, the touch of his mate. RJ was right.

“Why’d you let me go through all of that?” I asked, genuinely curious and just the slightest bit pissed.

Sherlock was too awkward to make his touch softer, but I could hear the apology in his voice when he said, “They’d have killed you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson otherwise. I doubt they had silver bullets, but I would rather England fall later rather than sooner.”

I nuzzled into his neck, then nipped it sharply. He yelped; it was good to see Sherlock Holmes startled for a bit. “You could’ve _told_ me it wasn’t real.”

“I did tell you,” he half-chided. “I said ‘It’s all a magic trick’, remember?”

That reminded me. “Can you do something for me?” I asked, suddenly solemn. When he nodded, I said, “This is going to sound absolutely daft, but I’m being serious. I might freeze or do anything else natural of extreme shocks.”

“Okay…” He was listening intently, his eyes focused as if absorbing every word.

I took a breath and handed him the slip of paper with the phrase on it. “I need you to say those two words. Nothing’s wrong, it’s just… it’s just kind of a – a trigger thing. I’ll be okay, whatever happens. Just remember that I’ll be okay. It’s just a side-effect. It’ll be over soon. The boys – that’s Skye, RJ, and Phoenix, by the way – the boys did it to protect me.”

He took the slip of paper.

“Vatican cameos.”

* * *

“I’m a fake” – “Shut up, Sherlock, shut up” – “It’s all a trick, just a magic trick” – “Hoi, stop it now” – “This phone call, it’s my note” – “Please, Sher. Don’t do this” –

Fear and terror and getbacktoSherlocknowitwasabloodyfuckingtrick – sinking pit in my stomach – _I love you, isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t that have been enough?_ – Sherlock on the roof – Sherlock tossing away his phone, the line going dead – _SHERLOCK_ –

“No he’s my boyfriend” – “Sir you need to calm down” – just let me – “I’m a doctor” – I need to get through I need to get through _–_

Skye, his teeth bared, lifting his arm to shoot thrice into the air for some privacy – “John, look at me” –

I snapped back to myself just as suddenly as I plunged into my own mind. Sherlock was supporting me, anxiously peering into my eyes. “What the hell was that?” he demanded. “Did you take anything – are you _high, John?_ ”

“No! God, no,” I assured him. “Just… I can explain. But later. When we’re not standing in the middle of nowhere with Mycroft’s driver well within earshot.”

“And, John,” he gripped my shoulders tightly, fixing me with iridescent, earnest eyes; “I’m very sorry for not being there during the full moon. I wanted to, but my stupid overbearing fool of a brother kept me tied up until after the funeral.”

I’d been angry about that… but then again, I _had_ needed to put on a performance for the funeral, and I was never a very good actor. Me being me, I probably wouldn’t have done well enough for a bereaved lover. On the other side of everything, I was rather glad that he hadn’t seen me when my PTSD and my grief were driving me insane. “No, I think that’s going to be fine,” I replied, and I meant it. If it wasn't now, it would be.

“Now for our plans,” Sherlock announced. “Mycroft’s made arrangements for you to join Doctors Without Borders – you’ll just have to sign the paperwork. The volunteer work will allow you to come with me; Moriarty’s web spans several continents, and I’d rather not take the chance that there aren’t any long-standing orders for our demise. We’ve a proper hunt at last, John!” His eyes glittered.

“Good job you invited the werewolf, then,” I declared vibrantly. “You weren’t going anywhere without me anyway.” Just then my mobile pinged. A new text from Phoenix’s number. I grinned at it.

 _Told you you’d like it. Well, good luck then! Give SH our regards. ~RJ, Nix, and Pup_.

“Here, look at this.” Strangely enough, he only panicked for about a second before the device pinged again.

_P.S. Sherlock, don’t panic. Your secret’s safe with us. ~ RJH, PW, and MSN._

“Come on then, Mycroft got us a little place.” Sherlock handed me back my mobile. “Isolated, of course, and prime spot for a werewolf and a ghost on holiday. Dartmoor air _is_ rather refreshing, and we might found out if Henry Knight was actually bitten by a werewolf into the deal.” Linking his arm with mine, he tugged me in some indeterminate direction.

“I guess the game is on, then,” I agreed joyfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the chapter is too long, tell me and I'll cut it, haha. I've never been good at gauging chapter length, so I guess that's up to you guys!
> 
> This one's done at last! Thank you for reading (and commenting and kudos-ing if you did that too) and I hope I see you all again. Very soon. See ya!


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